Angelic Lies, Demonic Truths
by FoxxFire5
Summary: Certain demons long for revenge on Crowley. Aziraphale gets in serious trouble. Crowley's in an awkward situation--he has to try and save Aziraphale--or not. First GO fanfic. RnRs/advice would be bless-curs-appreciated. :D Rated T for violence. Completed!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **Aziraphale and Crowley do not belong to me, they belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. No copyright infringement intened, just admiration. :D My first attempt at a _Good Omen's_ fanfic, any comments would be welcome.

Ps) This fic is based on a dream I had after reading a bunch of GO fanfiction. So, part of my inspiration is the other GO writers! And my totally messed up subconcious...

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**Angelic Lies, Demonic Truth**

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**Chapter One**

A. J. Crowley had been being pursued, spied on, and generally _Messed With_, off and on for a few weeks. Not that it was consistent, and there were only a few times he'd been certain that there _were _imps following him, but he knew—he would have known even if he hadn't spotted the little buggers—that Someone Down There was Trying to Get His Goat. He could think of several possibilities as to who it could be, especially after the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't. So far, he'd not actually yet caught one of the lesser demons to ask who in the bloody Hell (1) was Interested in him.

That was about to change, however. Crowley had one cornered among a group of his houseplants. He'd stopped by his apartment before going to meet his Adversary in the park. Crowley knew there was an imp in among his houseplants because of the way the plants were openly trembling (2).

With a movement comparable to a predator gliding fleetly through the grass (3), Crowley hurried across the apartment, reached behind his plants, and grabbed the intruder, which somewhat resembled a shaved, mutant pygmy marmoset with a visible boil problem.

"Hello." Crowley grinned, bearing fangs. It wasn't a nice grin (4). "What. Are. You. Doing. Here?" Although he enunciated carefully, his voice seemed calm and under control—in other words, it was utterly terrifying.

The imp squeaked as hands closed around its throat. "Or-orders."

"Whose?" He let his shades slip down his nose a little ways so that the lesser demon could see his golden-yellow slitted eyes.

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1. Literally.

2. Of course, they normally trembled, but not quite so much or so obviously. The plants knew, by this time, that subtle fear was the only acceptable way to express the emotion around Crowley. If they got too demonstrative, he disposed of them.

3. With good reason…

4. Crowley actually, if pressed, would have said that he didn't HAVE a nice grin, that all of his grins varied from mischievous to pure evil and that his smirks were the same way. He was wrong. He did, in fact, have a pleasant grin, albeit a rare one, that for some reason generally manifested itself around Aziraphale (5).

5. Similarly, Aziraphale had a smirk that would occasionally surface when he was around Crowley. Of course, it wasn't a particularly good smirk, as his blonde, slightly chunky, tartan wearing, bookselling physical manifestation couldn't quite pull off the smirk. But he did have one.

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If the ducks at St. James Park had been capable of being surprised (1), they would have been the moment an ethereal being with wings crashed down into the water. As it was, they only squawked indignantly and moved out of the way of the floundering white-winged figure. Amazingly, all of the humans that had been in the park half an hour earlier had vanished, suddenly remembering they had other things to do in other places. It was just the ducks and the ethereal beings.

Aziraphale was in pain. He was in pain and he had, stupidly, taken in a deep breath of water so that his human form spluttered most indignantly. His wings were soaked and weighted him down and his head was reeling from the blows, and so it was with great difficulty that he stood upright and faced his attackers.

Demons. A pack of demons. They'd ganged up on him and he'd fought hard and managed to injure two of them, but he'd been surprised and overpowered and then tossed into the pond. The pack of demons—_Was it a pack of demons? _Aziraphale dimly wondered, _Or a group? A gaggle?—_were laughing at him.

He drew himself up with as much dignity as he could muster considering he was bruised, battered, and soaked (2), and then Aziraphale shed the constraints of his human skin, glowing with a Holy light that caused several of the lesser demons to flinch.

Concentrating his energy, he sent out a beam of angelic light that fried two of the imps approaching him and caused all the demons to stagger back, burnt. Aziraphale felt a little non-virtuous triumph that was short lived as he considered his odds.

He was unarmed and outnumbered. It had been a great surprise when he had felt the sudden spike of Demonic Presence behind him—a definitely not Crowley-like Presence since, Aziraphale had to admit, at this point, Crowley's Presence was more comforting than actually evil-feeling. The angel had almost forgotten that the mere Presence of a demon could be extremely painful. But he certainly remembered now.

Remembered and gritted his teeth determinedly as the largest of the demons approached him. His energy was spent—he couldn't manifest another burst for a while. He was out of practice and the demonic auras were draining his holy one. Worse than the mere Presence of demons, though, was the pain caused by physical contact with one and this Aziraphale experienced next, as the giant demon lunged forward, took hold of his arm and jerked his shoulder out of its socket.

Naturally Aziraphale struggled, beating his wings in an attempt to get away, but then he was unfortunate enough to find out that even worse than _physical_ contact with a demon (other than Crowley. It never hurt to come in contact with Crowley) was the wounds caused by one of their ethereal weapons. In this case, it was a blade of hellfire that rammed through his already injured shoulder.

He had experienced pain before, had been discorpulated several times, but this was absolute _agony_, for the weapon injured Aziraphale _himself_, in his _true _form, and not just his man-shaped form. And so it was in body and soul that Aziraphale was tortured.

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1. They weren't. This wasn't merely because the brains of water fowl are limited, mostly it was because anyone, even a duck, becomes immune to surprise after having angels and demons hanging around them for awhile.

2. And wearing wet, tartan trousers and a wet sweater vest. In other words, it speaks well of Aziraphale that he was able to muster any dignity at all in the circumstances.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Still don't own anyone, still not getting paid. :)

A second chapter because the first was a bit of a cliffie--does anyone like the story? Meaning, would anyone be interested in reading the end of it? Just asking so I know whether you'd all like it finished. Any comments/critiques'd be welcome, this is my first time writing about everyone's favorite demon and angel duo.

Thanks for reading! :)

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**Chapter Two**

Crowley increased pressure. The imp let out a small squawk. "The—the Great Duke of Hell, Bringer of Misery, Destroyer of—"

Scowling in impatience, Crowley let his hand develop talons and sunk one into the imps flesh. "Jusst the name, not the moniker."

"Duke Hastur."

Crowley hissed. "_Why_ is he sspying on me?" Generally, subterfuge was not the Duke's style. He was the type to tear wings off first and ask questions later. "Is he trying to find out my fatal weaknesss?" This was said sarcastically—Hastur, if he put his mind to it, could destroy Crowley easily. Even without using holy water. Probably even without using his hands.

"He _knows_ what your weakness is." The imp replied, and then instantly looked as though it seriously regretted speaking. Or existing. (1)

"Really?" Crowley's voice was carefully offhand. Well, it was no great feat of brainwork for Hastur to find out that Holy water would kill him as would being torn into small little bits one at a time. Why hadn't he attacked already?

"Or, should I say," the fatalistic little creature piped upon seeing the demon's seemingly unimpressed attitude. "_Who_ your weakness is."

Crowley's hand tightened automatically and he almost snapped the imp's neck in two at that moment. _Who_ his weakness was? That didn't make any sense. The only being he'd had steady contact with since, well, forever, was…_Aziraphale_.

But, a voice in his head protested, the angel couldn't be called his _weakness_, as such. Surely his Achilles' heel (2) was his Desire to Always Look Sexy or how he felt the need to Keep Up With the Times or even his houseplants or the Bentley or _something_. Not Aziraphale. Demons don't care about angels, demons don't worry about angels, demons don't even _like_ angels.

Sure, he'd gotten used to seeing Aziraphale around—hard not to after 6000+ years—and they did have the Arrangement, but they weren't _friends_ as such. Not really. Okay, so they'd gone through the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't together, that'd bring anybody closer, right? But Aziraphale and Crowley had the same relationship they always did, right? (3)

Somehow Crowley realized that his brain was rambling and he reined it in and glared, eyes glowing, at the imp. "Explain. Everything. _Now_."

The imp explained.

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1. One of the reasons imps have absolutely no life expectancy to speak of is their expendability and also their unique demonic powers of Never Being Able to Shut Up Properly, Fouling Up Even the Simplest of Tasks, and Always Saying the Wrong Thing at the Wrong Time. In that way, they are similar to stereotypical bumbling sidekicks everywhere.

2. And he knew about Achilles' heels. He was the one who had made sure said Greek had an infected callous on his heel and flat arches to boot, for good—for Something's sake.

3. The same relationship they'd had since the Arrangement, that is. Before that, there had been some smiting and general nastiness on both their parts…

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"Oh dear," Aziraphale said, scraping himself up from the ground in front of Their Park Bench. (1) "I don't suppose we can talk about this sensibly?"

The large demon, who Aziraphale recognized as Hastur, Duke of Hell and Bane of Crowley, leered, exposing rotted teeth that would make any dentist have nightmares for eons. "Sure—if you admit that you have a Pact with the demon Crowley."

"A Pact?" Aziraphale asked, edging closer to the pond. He'd just had an idea, and his powers were slightly recovered from his first attack. "Whatever do you mean?" If he could keep Hastur talking for a while longer, he could get close enough…

"I _know_ you have a Pact with him, and you _will_ confess to it." Hastur said this with all the ease of someone who knew he was right, someone who was very probably going to tear the angel apart to make certain that he was right.

He was talking about the Arrangement. Somehow, Hastur was thinking that if he got Aziraphale to acknowledge their agreement, he could hurt Crowley. Well, Aziraphale wasn't going to help the Duke hurt any being, let alone _Crowley_.

"I am afraid that if you do not…" He paused. It had been a long time since he'd invoked divine wrath and he'd never been very good at threats. "…Desist…this instant I shall be forced to…to compulsorily discorporate you."

The demons laughed. (2) Aziraphale took the opportunity to lunge the rest of the way toward the pond and scoop some of the water into his hands. Hurriedly, he Blessed it, and then threw it over the nearest demons, who screamed, screamed horrifyingly and melted in a way much nastier than the Wicked Witch of the West ever had. Now it was only Hastur and a few imps.

Hastur swore. Or blessed, rather. Aziraphale ignored him, bending down to get another handful of water, but the Duke reached him and the fiery darkness of his sword sliced into him, driving Aziraphale to his knees. Refusing to give up, he grabbed Hastur's wrist with a still-damp palm and Hastur screamed as even the faintest trace of holy water and the touch of the angel seared his skin.

It was a short lived triumph. Hastur retaliated, swinging the dark sword down and slicing partially through his right wing. And then it was Aziraphale that screamed.

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1. Yes, scraping is an accurate word as he was thrown down so hard when he got up part of his skin remained behind _and_ the capitals in Their Park Bench are utterly necessary for that's what the bench was. Crowley-and-Aziraphale's Park Bench.

2. Aziraphale was angered by this and, had he actually been the sort of human he appeared to be, would have had nasty flashbacks to being taunted in secondary school.

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	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **Don't own 'em, don't get paid, just love 'em.

Well, here's the next chapter! Thanks, Zoeperson, for the review! I appreciate it!

So, if you guys want me to, I'll keep going with this and finish it... Any comments/critiques'd be welcome, like I said, this is my first time writing about these two.

Thanks for reading and reviewing! :)

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**Chapter Three**

The shriek of an angel in pain is nothing to be sneezed at. (1) Such a scream—the real, pained cry of an angel suffering—is rather like the 'shot heard round the world' at the start of the American Revolution. It is as serious as a bullet and echoes long after the original yell is over and often entails quite a lot of bloodshed.

All of the humans in the vicinity, as dense as they were to ethereal presences, _felt_ the scream, although they did not actually hear it, which had various effects on them depending on the person. None of the reactions were pleasant. (2) The scream of an angel was even _less_ pleasant for one demon who _recognized_ the agony-filled shriek.

Crowley's anger, which he had been carefully gathering and wrapping up in tight little bundles of control as the imp spoke, erupted into flames quicker than a stack of dried sticks. _Aziraphale_. The demon tossed the minion of Hell out of his apartment window and ran to the Bentley. At that moment, he wasn't thinking about the fact that demons weren't supposed to care if stupid, troublesome, tartan-clad angels were being tortured, that they were, in fact, supposed to like it. He had only one thing, one rather un-demonic thought, on his mind and that was to get to Aziraphale.

It was only after he was tearing down the road, going much faster than ought to have been possible, that Anthony J. Crowley pondered what he was doing.

What _was_ he doing? Rushing to Aziraphale's rescue and preparing to attack a _Duke of Hell_, for Go-for Sa-for Someone's sake? He couldn't even say it was going to help him in the long run—Aziraphale was, honestly, a blessed pain in the ass and confronting Hastur was right up there with dousing himself with holy water on the common sense chart. Why should he help the angel? They were Enemies for Chr—for Manchester's sake.

Sure, Aziraphale _was_ just enough of a bastard to like, but that didn't mean Crowley should stick out his own neck for him. No. It didn't mean that at all. So why was he still speeding down the road as fast as the Bentley could take him, heading toward the source of the scream? Crowley decided to stop asking himself such questions, especially when he probably wouldn't like the answers to them. Instead, he tromped down on the gas pedal even harder.

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1. Unless you're a demon and allergic.

2. These included nausea, heartburn, trouble sleeping, mental confusion, irritability, nervousness, restlessness, loose stool, and so on. Basically everything one sees in small print at the bottom of ad for medicine.

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The thing that really bothered him, Aziraphale thought dimly, the thing that really got on his nerves was feeling so da—so _ruddy_ helpless. And that was exactly what he felt, at the moment, staked to one of the park's oldest trees with the broken off, metal legs of a park bench thrust through his wings. He was pinned to the oak like some kind of bizarre butterfly in an entomology collection, all of his weight hanging on his wings, his shoulder disconnected, several of his bones broken, and basically feeling as though he had been flayed all over. And then napalmed.

Aziraphale was grateful for two things. First, he was glad that he wasn't, in addition to helpless, weak. Well, admitedly he was _physically_ weak, but in general he was _not_ and Aziraphale proved this by stoutly refusing to flinch away from Hastur's approach. The second thing that made him feel thankful was that Crowley, who was apparently the one Hastur was _really_ cheesed off with, had not come to harm. Granted, if Aziraphale could have been certain that Crowley would defeat Hastur, well then he wouldn't have minded a bit of assistance from his counterpart.

As it stood, though, he wasn't sure Crowley _could_ handle the duke and so the angel was relieved that one of them, at least, would escape injury. Aziraphale didn't dwell on why he felt that way—he knew, deep down, that Crowley was his friend, his best and only friend, and besides, self sacrifice and martyr-complexes and all that were practically built in to angels.

"I could stop the pain," Hastur said in a low voice.

_That would be lovely_, Aziraphale thought, but he didn't say anything. If being around Crowley for so long had taught him anything, it had taught him to recognize Temptation when he heard it. (1)

"I have a bargain to offer unto you," Hastur whispered in the angel's bloodied ear. Evidentially he felt the need to clarify, for he added, "I'm gonna make you an offer you can't refuse," with a deadly grin on his face. "Confess you have a pact with Crowley and all your pain's over, done with, kaput."

Aziraphale, who briefly wondered where Duke Hastur had learned the word 'kaput,' opened his good eye. If he could have summoned the energy, he might have made a rude gesture with one of his fingers, a gesture that Crowley was fond of, particularly when he was driving. As it was, the angel could barely lift his head to look him in the eye. His cracked lips bled a little more as he opened his mouth to respond, attempting to conjure some of Crowley's bravado. "Go back to Hell," he said.

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1. His close proximity to the serpent had also taught him many other interesting things such as "Never go near a karaoke machine after six margaritas" and "Never attempt to Offer Friendly Advice to anyone in a bar that is referred to as a 'joint,'" etc.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **Hey guys, thanks so much for reviewing! It's really the reviews that spur me on.

I hope you all like my next chapter, here it is. Tell me if you want me to continue going/please let me know what you think! It may very well be what drives me to continue... :)

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

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**Chapter Four**

Hastur was, to use a particularly apt idiom, foaming at the mouth. His plan had been simple. Hell had decided to ignore Crowley and had, in fact, made it clear that if Hastur himself attempted to haul Crowley over the coals, (1) _he_ would be the one punished. So, as Hastur wanted to keep all his innards _in_ and his nose relatively unplugged (2), almost as much as he wanted to rip Crowley's forked tongue out of his mouth, he had decided to get to Crowley in some other way. Hence the spying. After Hastur saw that the serpent was still parleying with that blessed angel, the one who'd helped him stop the Apocalypse, Hastur had found his way to revenge.

It was clear that Crowley had made a deal with an angel—funny how that sounded—and the two were obviously cooperating so that they could go about their respective businesses in peace. A deal with a Principality like that was something that Hastur could get Crowley punished for. Definitely. They wouldn't believe just his word, though—Hastur had never been the most honest of demons—(3) thus he needed proof. Easy enough, he'd decided, he would only have to ambush said angel, have a bit of fun with him, and wait for him to confess. Aziraphale looked downright poofy, Hastur had thought; how hard could it be to intimidate him to rat out his business associate?

Damned hard, Hastur was finding out. He'd underestimated Aziraphale who, for some unknown, misguided reason, was _protecting_ Crowley. If the bloody idiot would only confess, it'd be irrefutable evidence. Hastur even had a formal confession all drawn up, ready for Aziraphale to sign it with his true name, asserting that he was telling the truth. But the angel wouldn't even _verbally_ admit to his Pact, let alone sign anything saying he had one. Damn and bless. This stubborn bastard was going to need Special Persuasion. (4)

Hastur opened his palm, hellfire immediately engulfing it. "Let me put this another way, angel filth," he spat. "Either you confess about you and Crowley's Pact, or I kill you. Not your body. _You_. Now come clean, pal. "

The Duke held his hand to the bottom of Aziraphale's left wing, just close enough so that the delicate, silky ends of the flight feathers began to singe. Hanging around like he was, Aziraphale couldn't move his wings away without ripping them up some more and so he had to stay very still even as the feathers started smoldering.

Aziraphale used every bit of will power he had left not to squirm or shudder or moan as the tips of his damp feathers finally sputtered into flames. If he was going to die, he was going to do so with some sort of dignity. He almost snorted at that thought—he was pinned to a tree like a deranged Christmas ornament, bloody, broken, wet, and he was certain he made a pathetic sight—it'd be pretty darn hard to _find_ any dignity to die with.

Nevertheless, he shook his head. "I believe," his voice cracked with pain, "I believe I told you…where you can go, Duke Hastur."

Crowley would approve of his attitude, Aziraphale was certain. Growling, Hastur extinguished the flames, muttering that burning would be too quick a death. Aziraphale managed to hold in his sigh of relief at the disappearance of the flames.

"You will _suffer_, angel, I will tear you into tiny pieces and grind you beneath my feet! The last thing you shall know will be agony and I will scatter what's left of you in the pits of Hell!" The demon grabbed his right, sliced up wing and squeezed the injury. "You're gonna wish you'd never been Created!"

Aziraphale clenched his jaw tight and bit down into his cheek so hard he made it bleed. The park was blurring around the edges and his head swam, but the pain, the pain was still all too clear.

"Give it up already!" Hastur was yelling. "Condemn Crowley! Confess to the Pact between you and him and save your worthless existence, save your blessed life!"

"No," Aziraphale stated in a broken, yet assured, voice. "I…Will. Not."

"Then you die!"

"So…so be it."

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1. Not metaphorically, either.

2. One of the many punishments a Duke that disobeyed could get would be to have his viscera ripped out. Through his _nose_.

3. If he had been, he'd never have become a Duke…

4. Special Persuasion being one of Hastur's singular talents.

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Crowley parked the Bentley (1) right outside of the gates of St. James Park and ran toward the demonic and angelic Presences. He could just make out Hastur's angry bellow followed by, almost inaudibly, Aziraphale.

"Give it up already!" Hastur was yelling. "Condemn Crowley! Confess to the Pact between you and him and save your worthless existence, save your blessed life!"

"No," Aziraphale's broken, yet assured, voice said. "I…Will. Not."

"Then you die!"

"So…so be it."

Crowley, still running toward them, almost tripped with surprise. Aziraphale was protecting him. The angel was facing down an angry Duke of Hell; he was throwing his _life_ away for _him_. Blurrily, Crowley tried to recall the last time someone had willingly risked their life for him—oh right, nobody ever had, only Aziraphale. It was unacceptable. He wouldn't allow it. It wasn't part of the Arrangement!

And then Crowley saw him. For a terrible moment, everything seemed frozen as he stared, transfixed, at the Principality.

His clothing was torn and tattered, revealing various cuts and bruises, both eyes were blackened, the left was swollen shut, his lips were split, there was a slice along his abdomen, his shoulder appeared to have been dislocated and stabbed through with a flaming sword and then, worst of all, were his wings… Aziraphale's once white, now gore-streaked wings…

Both of the angel's wings were pierced clean through with some sort of makeshift spear, effectively staking Aziraphale to the oak. His right wing was the bloodiest, with a stab wound cutting into it so far that it had almost been detached, and several of his long flight feathers were burnt at the bottom.

Crowley lost what remained of his control. His wings ruptured from his back, his talons came out, his fangs appeared, his eyes glowed behind his sunglasses, and he felt his scales patterning down his arms and torso. A noise somewhere between a hiss and a growl tore out of his throat.

Hastur turned, spotted Crowley, and leered. With his left hand he summoned his flaming sword and then he grabbed the metal spike protruding from Aziraphale's right wing with his free hand and ripped it out, brandishing it like another weapon.

There was another horrible, wrenching scream from Aziraphale as he crumpled, his left wing snapping sickeningly as it was forced to hold all his weight.

At the angel's cry, Crowley hissed furiously, his rage, which he had thought already reached its maximum, flared out around him, white hot. He was going to kill Hastur. He was going to make him _pay_.

An instant later, Crowley rushed the Duke, colliding into the larger demon hard enough to cause Hastur's dark sword of hellfire (2) to go flying, landing in the duck pond and narrowly missing a drake.

It was going to be one Hell of a fight. (3)

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1. If careening the car onto the sidewalk then jumping out of it counts as parking.

2. Also called 'that big bloody sword what's burning' by Ligur, who had ditched his own sword in favor of using his hands eons before he met his untimely end.

3. Bad pun intended. The writer couldn't help herself.

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	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes: **Thanks for the reviews guys! I am holding the ending hostage until you let me know what you think about this chapter--I had a little trouble with it. All comments and advice are appreciated.

(BTW Sivaroobini Lupin-Black, thanks for the review, I changed the note to say secondary school, not high school. I appreciate you pointing out my Amerecanism--I try to weed them all out but some sneak in. Thanks!)

Okay guys, you comment, I write more. (grins evily) LOL I guess Crowley's having an Influence on me. xD Seriously, comments are nice. And so are you guys for reading this! :D

Ps) There is bad language in this, just so you know.

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**Chapter Five**

Hastur's invariable surprise at being attacked did not prevent him from, the moment the sword went flying, ripping out with his taloned left hand and swinging his makeshift club with his right. Crowley, every bit the serpent, twisted out of the reach of his claws with the ease of a professional contortionist, but he couldn't avoid the blow that glanced off his side from the metal bench leg. Grinning manically, the duke flexed dramatically, his own wings bursting out.

Eyes narrowed, Crowley took an unnecessary breath and forcibly unclenched his fists. Even though his back was to Aziraphale, he could still see the brutalized form of the angel in his mind's eye and hear the horrible sharp crack as the bones in his wing snapped. Crowley had to fight the raw anger and desire to kill that coursed through him. He couldn't lose all control, his mind was his real weapon here—Hastur was stronger, Hastur was more powerful, Hastur was more experienced at ripping out living being's spinal cords, but Crowley was more clever. He didn't have much more time than that to contemplate, however, because suddenly Hastur was on him with all the literal fury of a demon scorned (1).

A sapling exploded to Crowley's right, going up in flames of hellfire and singeing the back of his tailor-made shirt. In dodging the combusting tree, he narrowly missed getting killed as Hastur's claws swiped at his throat; he had to hurriedly throw himself backwards. It was easy to tell who the offensive fighter was and who the defensive one was, even _if_ Crowley had started the brawl. The thing of it was; Crowley wasn't a fighter. He was a talker—a Tempter—who would generally fight only if cornered, but luckily, he was also extremely infuriated at the moment. If that was any help.

He twirled again to miss another of the duke's blows and momentarily lost his balance. He barely had time to roll to his feet before the ground where he had been was engulfed in flames. Da- _shit_ the park was going to need some serious demon redecorating after this battle was over. And then Crowley took in another deep, unnecessary gasp as he saw the flames of Hell on the grass spreading, heading directly for the tree Aziraphale was still hanging from.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Crowley gasped, although the actual sentence came out in a rush as 'Y'gottab'kid'n'me.' He had to win the fight with Hastur and soon, unless he wanted Aziraphale to be angel barbeque. Which, for some reason, he didn't.

Okay. So he had to win the battle. He hadn't been thinking about that when he first attacked Hastur—he hadn't been thinking at all, in point of fact, he'd just wanted to rip his throat out—but now Crowley _needed_ to think even as he dodged the blows and gave a few of his own.

Hastur was a powerhouse, his demon incarnation much larger than Crowley's with more bulk, resulting in the fact that he was slower. Not by much, but the Serpent would take every advantage he could get. He just needed to stay out of reach of the duke's giant arms and…and then what?

Having a plan would have been a good idea, but he hadn't made one, he had seen Aziraphale and gone spare. A small part of Crowley was screaming at himself, wondering why in whatever's name he had decided attacking Hastur would be a good idea. Why should Crowley risk his own skin for Aziraphale? He wasn't sure, it was somehow automatic, and besides, regardless of the fact that the angel was supposed to be his enemy, in Crowley's book, Aziraphale was Someone With Whom You Do Not Fuck, Unless you Want Crowley to Rip your Face Off. It was a new realization, and a somewhat unwelcome one, but Crowley didn't waste time thinking about it.

Instead, he dodged Hastur's next heavy swing and pulled one of the oldest tricks in the book (2) by sticking his foot out and causing Hastur to trip.

"Damned snake!" Hastur growled.

Baring his fangs nastily in what was clearly not a smile, Crowley gave him his best Flash Bastard look, his expression clearly saying, 'yes, that's me, what of it?' (3) As Hastur recovered his balance, Crowley risked a glance at the giant oak Aziraphale was on and grimaced.

The flames were steadily heading in the angel's direction. They were running out of time. Briefly he considered going airborne, but the duke's wingspan was huge to make up for his girth and Crowley would lose the advantage of speed. No. No flying.

"You—" For the first time that Crowley could recall, Hastur spluttered. "You _care_, don't you? It's not—it's not just business! He's…" His tone was full of dawning horror. (5) "He's your _friend_, isn't he?"

Crowley made a face, for once in his life wishing that there was less talk and more fighting going on at the moment. "Er."

Shuddering, Hastur made a gesture, and the flames of hellfire grew larger and faster, speeding towards Aziraphale's tree, and Crowley hissed angrily; he couldn't extinguish another demon's hellfire, not a duke's anyway, the only way he could stop the flames was to kill said demon or at least discorporate the body he was in.

Looking once more at Aziraphale, dangling helplessly because he had refused to betray him, Crowley snarled, his fangs growing larger, and once more went on the offensive. It was all or nothing, kill or be killed (6), and Crowley was _not_ going to die and was, more importantly, sure as Hell not going to let _Aziraphale_ die.

* * *

1. Well, a demon denied his kill, which is just as bad as a demon scorned. Both of them are about par with a woman scorned, depending, of course, on the woman and the demon involved.

2. And Crowley had written _The Book of Tricks_. And produced several monologues on the subject as well as a distributional pamphlet.

3. Crowley could have given a snappy come back here, but he was too busy trying to figure out how to a) survive and b) save the angel. Contrary to popular belief, dialogue is not really common during most fights, even the ones between demons. Despite the evidence of movies, most people (and occult/ethereal beings) don't have the time or the energy to waste on witty repartees. (4)

4. Unless, of course, they're really really clever.

5. His tone the same, basically, as if a little girl had come up to him riding on a fat pony holding a bunch of kittens while blowing bubbles as a rainbow filled the sky. (Hastur often had nightmares about such things.)

6. Well, kill or let your friend be killed while you yourself are tortured for eternity, assuming that you aren't killed as well.

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	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: **Hey thanks for the reviews, guys! I worked super hard on this next chapter, please do let me know what you think of it. (As Aziraphale would say.)

Or: Comment on this or it doesn't get updated. (As Crowley would say.) xD

jk jk Though crits/comments _are_ much appreciated. Lol. I'm having too much fun.

Just so you know, this next bit is one full section, but I put in lines to break up the switching POVs. It shouldn't be confusing. I hope.

Anyway, thanks for reading this, I really do hope you guys like it so far! (And GO still doesn't belong to me, btw.)

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**Chapter Six**

Aziraphale lost consciousness when his wing snapped, but pain and something else, something like apprehension, eased him partially out of the stupor he was in; just enough so that some part of him realized that he didn't really want to wake up. The still dark was comforting, pain free, and it was easy to sink back down into oblivion…

But it was hot. Extremely hot. Something told him that this was wrong, that it should bother him, but he was too weak to care. A sound did manage to penetrate his barriers—a continuous moaning noise. Was _he_ making that noise?

It was at that moment the entirety of his pain registered and he sucked in a shaky, wet breath. Aziraphale felt dazed, befuddled, and then he was, needlessly, gasping for air with distress. Oh, heavens, it hurt. His entire body _ached_, as though he had gone cliff diving into a pool of crushed glass and then been run over by a steam roller. The worst of it was the intense pain in his shoulder and in his wing, and Aziraphale wanted to shift one or both of them, but he couldn't seem to move.

What had happened? He seemed to recall a demon being the basis of the situation, but not Crowley… Crowley wouldn't hurt him… (1)

And then he remembered Hastur's depraved grin and the white hot pain of the duke pulling out one of the stakes Aziraphale was pinned with, causing his left wing to snap. The angel couldn't summon the energy or will to open his eyes and see what he was going to be impaled with next (2)—the left wouldn't open, anyway—and he knew, almost certainly, that he wouldn't be able to reach up and pull the crude stake from his wing. Not without great cost to himself.

Aziraphale was stuck. The thought almost made him laugh—he was _stuck_ through the wing and _stuck_ on the tree. Oh dear. It seemed as though he was slightly…delirious. Sighing, the Principality sagged against the tree in the park, taking in a deep breath and the nutty, grassy scents mingling with the smell of blood and sweat and…_sulphur_?

Aziraphale's right eye opened, and he took in the scene before him, horrified and gasping loudly. He was not, perhaps surprisingly, focused on the flames of hellfire that were quite literally almost beneath him (3), but on the two demonic figures locked in vicious combat.

"Cr-crowley," Aziraphale tried to shout, but his throat was closed up and he merely made an ill-sounding groan.

He twisted and turned, nearly retching with the pain in his left wing as he strained to be able to see. What the dev—er, _by Jove_, what was Crowley _doing_? Hastur was a duke; Crowley wasn't. Hastur was huge; Crowley wasn't. Hastur was vicious and nasty and a Twisted Bastard; Crowley wasn't. (4)

Although it could have been due to the fact that the angel was currently in a not-so-pleasant mood—being tortured and skewered tends to do that to a being—Aziraphale's first reaction other than anxiety for Crowley was one of slight annoyance. The angel had endured pain, had been maimed, practically, so that Hastur wouldn't get his hands on his counterpart and the silly serpent had decided to make it easy for the duke and come to him!

Still, Aziraphale had to admit, there was a nice warm glow in his chest at the seemingly incongruous spectacle in front of him. Crowley was protecting him. Perhaps the feeling of friendship—that is, _camaraderie_, the small goody two wings angel inside of him corrected—he had for Crowley was mutual. After all, A. J. Crowley was certainly fighting for _something_ fervently—Aziraphale had last seen the demon with that kind of vehemence, desperation, and dedication during the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't. Hastur, on the other hand, was all hard rage and no planning. If Crowley minded his temper, he had a chance.

* * *

Crowley ducked as a meaty fist aimed for his head and he raked his claws across Hastur's side. Just as he ripped through flesh, one of the duke's wings slammed into Crowley, putting him off balance, and the duke charged him, throwing him into a small tree so hard that splinters stabbed into his arms.

He ignored the pain and lashed out at Hastur as he came near, each of them trying to rip the other apart. Finally, Crowley managed to twist behind the duke and grab one of the duke's wings and he wrenched it as hard as he could, gripping the greasy feathers tightly. (5)

_Finally_ Crowley seemed to have the advantage—he was holding on tight with his talons, avoiding the blows from the higher ranked demon's free wing, and Hastur couldn't seem to reach him with his arms.

It was time to end it. Crowley opened his mouth, fangs ready to sink into the other demon's neck when the duke of Hell let out a roar and bellowed out something and all of a sudden there were imps everywhere.

"Bugger it," Crowley said, managing to hiss the words even though there weren't any 's,' 'c', or 'z' sounds in the phrase. He was, to put it in common Earth vernacular, dead meat. Toast. Finished. _Dead_.

* * *

Aziraphale watched as the mass of imps swarmed Crowley, who pulled them off right and left and thrashed and bit to try and fend them off, but more came and the real danger was Hastur, who clearly meant to kill Crowley while he dealt with his minions.

"N-no!" Aziraphale cried, his voice hoarse and wavering. "Sunglasses up!" He added, yelling at Crowley, who, guessing what the angel has in mind, instantly willed his shades further up onto his nose.

Aziraphale, when he saw the glasses were secured, gathered some of the dwindling energy he had and focused what Crowley had always sarcastically called his 'Bloody Blinding Beam of Blessed Light' on Hastur. The burst of angelic light was one of Aziraphale's weaker gifts, but it was enough to scatter the imps and temporarily blind Hastur. Crowley, with his shades, was unaffected and he rose to his feet and tried to gather his wits about him, thankful the angel had helped buy him some time.

Aziraphale wasn't finished, though. He knew the duke was only momentarily stunned and that his parlor trick might have temporarily saved Crowley, but it had made Hastur _really_ enraged and even more prepared for bloodlust whereas Crowley was already tired and bleeding. _Bless something_, Aziraphale thought, he needed to Bless something…but what? He did not have the energy to materialize something appropriate and then Bless it with enough holy power to kill Hastur; he would have to use something close to hand.

While the angel was debating, Hastur roared and became even larger, having entirely assumed his hideous true shape.

"!" Aziraphale looked around wildly. "Crowley, gloves, now!" he yelled brokenly as he reached up through a haze of pain and agony to Bless the bench leg sticking out of his wing. After it was significantly holy, he took it into both hands and pulled it out of the tree, out of his wing, screaming in agony. He just managed to throw it in Crowley's direction before he fell to the flame-streaked ground.

* * *

1. _Wellll_, Crowley wouldn't hurt him physically. (He was a demon, after all, and demons are bound to hurt one's feelings on the occasion.) Remembering something, Aziraphale amended this thought; Crowley would not physically injure him _seriously_. (The angel was still slightly upset by the occasion when, several months before hand, Crowley had 'accidentally' left the new cactus he'd purchased on Aziraphale's seat in the Bentley, causing him to sit on it and then, embarrassingly, swear in a most un-angelic way and hop around while trying to pry the wretched plant off of his derriere. Crowley had Fallen Over with Laughter.)

2. Apparently, Hastur had taken a seminar on the subject of 'Impalement and How it Can Pierce Through Even the Most Stubborn of Victim's Nerves (And Bits of Them).'

3. Though those were a concern, too. It wasn't as if he was wearing fireproof tartan pants.

4. Crowley was perhaps a _little_ twisted, and a Flash Bastard, but he _wasn't_ a Twisted Bastard or really all that nasty. When it came down to it, the fallen angel was actually a nice enough chap, good heart and all.

5. Of course, many demons _do_ have better groomed wings than angels, especially angels like Aziraphale, but Hastur was one of the exceptions. After all, he had once heard someone say cleanliness was next to godliness and Hastur certainly didn't want anything to do with Godliness. Especially as it was an excuse to avoid grooming.

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	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:** I appreciate all of the reviews, everyone. I've been sicker than a dog lately, so sorry if the updates aren't as fast as they used to be. Hence why this chapter took longer to get up. Well, that, and it's longer than the other chapters and I tried extremely hard to make Az and Crowley in character in this. I'm not sure if it worked or not...

So, just pretend I've included the usual beseeching/threats for comments/crits right here. Thanks for reading/reviewing.

GO doesn't belong to me and I don't get paid for this.

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**Chapter Seven**

"Crowley, gloves, now!" Aziraphale's fractured voice commanded.

Hastily, Crowley conjured himself some of the thickest, specially coated gloves he could think up. (1) That taken care of, he turned toward Aziraphale just as he let out a pained shout and threw something glowing with holiness in Crowley's direction.

And then the angel crashed to the ground; the ground smoldering with the flames of Hell.

"Aziraphale!" Crowley yelled, somehow managing to catch the Blessed bench leg, which made his gloves sizzle—he could feel the intense heat even through the uniquely treated leather.

The flames of Hell flared higher and Crowley instantly whirled toward the Duke with his makeshift spear of holiness ready. (2) Hastur lunged toward him, sinking talons into his wrists, trying to rip off his hands and thus rid him of the weapon.

Ignoring the sharp stabs to his wrists, Crowley thrust the bench leg as hard as he could through Hastur's stomach. Instantly, Duke Hastur was on the ground, shrieking hideously, his body oozing and melting and writhing.

But Crowley was not watching the death throes; he had already peeled off the protective gloves, instantly extinguished the hellfire with his will, and taken off like a bat out of Hell—with snake like speed—_very very quickly_, heading toward the collapsed form of his supposed Adversary.

_Don't let the flames have reached him, don't, just don't_, he thought, not entirely sure who or what he was speaking to—demons don't pray, after all, nor do they plead with ineffability.

Crowley fell to his knees beside Aziraphale. He was still, so still. The long flight feathers of both of the angel's wings had been burnt off, leaving the charred stumps of quills sticking out of his red, raw flesh, but it seemed that the fire had been extinguished before it could do further damage to the rest of him. Thank Go-Sa-Something that the rest of him hadn't been scorched. Hellfire did to angels what holy water did to demons.

With franticness he wouldn't have admitted to, Crowley closed his eyes and felt for the angelic Presence that always indicated Aziraphale was there. Finally he sensed it, albeit weakly, and he let out a breath. He was alive. At least he was alive.

"Angel?" Crowley bent over the immobile being that was lying on his side. Looking at Aziraphale gave Crowley the sensation that an invisible hand was squeezing his chest, but he ignored the feeling and gingerly, carefully, put his hand on an undamaged place on the Principality's arm. "Aziraphale?"

He flinched at Crowley's touch and made a small whimper that inexplicably tightened the demon's throat. It wasn't that the demon _cared; _it'd just be too big of a pain for a new agent of Heaven to be stationed on Earth in replacement. (3)

Crowley started a mental checklist as he assessed the damage:

Lots of small cuts and bruises. Left eye swollen shut, nose and ribs possibly broken, black bruising under both eyes and the torso. Split lips, stomach wound, shoulder stabbed and wrenched out of place. Two large holes in both of the wings, left wing broken in several places, right wing sliced nearly all the way through, severe burns along the bottom of both of them.

_Bugger_. The damage Aziraphale had taken made his own wounds seem insignificant trifles. Some small part of Crowley, some miniscule, stupid part of him that he generally ignored and shut up in a room with sound proof walls, was upset, upset and whining that it wasn't fair. Aziraphale had done _nothing_ to Hastur; his only mistake was being too stubborn and too loyal to condemn Crowley. The angel just didn't deserve this. He was, actually, in Crowley's opinion, the only angel that _didn't_ deserve something like this. But Crowley knew that life—existence, really—_wasn't_ fair, no matter what that tiny part of him wanted. He knew all too well that oftentimes the ones that got hurt were people that didn't deserve what they got.

Now what? Aziraphale was alive and Crowley had to decide what to do about it. It was bad enough he had rushed over to the park like an idiot. He couldn't really help the angel…could he? Demons don't help anyone, let alone angels.

But Aziraphale was, well, one of the few unchanging constants in Crowley's life. And the angel _would_ die—fade out—cease to exist, whatever you wanted to call it, if he _didn't_ get help.

Maybe Upstairs would help their field agent and miraculously restore him in a way that Crowley never could? The demon wasn't a powerful healer, after all. Crowley could heal himself okay, but healing an angel wasn't something demons were exactly meant to do. He'd healed Aziraphale a few times in the past millennia—when the angel had been too drunk or tired or drained to do it himself—but he'd never done serious healing, not like this.

But Up There had _let_ the angel be seriously injured, hadn't intervened—had, essentially, left Aziraphale on his own. Abandoned him. They would let him die, would let his existence fade into nothing.

"Fuck it," Crowley said. Aziraphale had done him a good turn by not turning him in, by refusing to admit to the Arrangement, and Crowley, bastard and shifty conman that he was, still didn't want to owe anyone anything. After all, if he help—er, assisted the angel, really it was just like he'd be paying back a debt, right?

Right. He was so good a con artist he could fool himself. Crowley waved his hand and St. James Park looked as it always had. Too bad it wouldn't be that easy for Aziraphale.

Placing a hand tentatively on the cauterized slice on the angel's abdomen, Crowley healed the injury and then healed his displaced and run through shoulder. The torn flesh mended, but there was still a heavy redness where each of the strikes from the sword had been. Crowley touched one of the red streaks and blessed heavily—it was hot, burning hot. A demonic sword was poison to an angel, and that sort of thing was _precisely_ what Crowley couldn't heal. He felt another ripple of cold go down his spine and that feeling of clenched sickness in his stomach returned and he realized, dismayed, that it was uncomfortably similar to _concern_.

Shaking his head, he gingerly pulled the shattered left wing out from under Aziraphale, who mewled pathetically even though he was out cold.

Crowley froze, sucked in a breath, and looked away from the angel's pain-twisted face. He was embarrassed watching the angel in pain and he knew Aziraphale wouldn't want Crowley to see him weak, that was all. He _didn't_ look away because he hated that Aziraphale was hurt so badly or because he was ashamed that the angel was hurt so badly because of _him_ or because Crowley himself had been the one to make Aziraphale whimper just now. No, none of those things were the reason. Not even close. His traitorous chest felt a heaviness around the heart area, a weight strangely similar to guilt.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley asked again, his voice coming out carefully, determinedly, even. "C'mon, wake up…"

Aziraphale shuddered and Crowley gently shook his arm. Finally, one feverish, pain-filled, azure eye opened and the angel jerked away from him with startled apprehension.

"It's only me," Crowley soothed, pointedly not considering why, exactly, he felt the need to give comfort. Bloody pathetic, that was.

"Cr-crowl…?" Aziraphale managed, his voice little more than a murmur of pain. After he had determined that it was, indeed, his counterpart, the Principality gave a small smile. "H-hello," he said faintly, his expression and voice obviously dazed.

For some reason, that placid smile and calm greeting made Crowley furious. "You're lucky you're alive, you blassted twit! What were you _thinking_, for Chr—Crimoney's sssakes!"

Aziraphale reached up and feebly patted Crowley on the arm.

The demon stared. The angel was reassuring _him_. Somehow that only increased his anger. "You ssshouldn't have protected me—why did you do it? Don't tell me you thought that _I'd_ have done the ssame for _you_! _I _would have turned _you_ in if, ssay, Gabriel had been torturing _me_!"

Aziraphale, who didn't look the least bit affected by his rant, gave him one of his many patented Looks. (4) This Look, in particular, was one that quite clearly said, _I-Do-Not-Feel-Like-Arguing-With-You-at-the-Moment-but-I-Know-What-You-Just-Said-is-Rubbish-and-I-Know-How-You-Really-Feel-and-You-Do-too,-for-that-Matter,-and-It-Would-Really-be-Best-for-Both-of-Us-If-We-Acknowledged-that-Fact,-My-Dear. _

Crowley gave a belligerent snort. (5) He had to admit that it was damned—er, blessed, impressive, how much the angel could convey with one expression.

"You…you fought Hastur…for me… shouldn't have…" Every few words Aziraphale had to stop, obviously in agony, though his face doing a good job of hiding it. Crowley was secretly impressed. "You could…get in trouble…and I was…trying to keep…you _outta_ trouble…" The Principality tried to push himself up to meet Crowley's gaze—well, his sunglasses—but he collapsed.

"Don't move," Crowley barked at him. He was trying to focus on staying angry—the other feelings of guilt and worry were utterly unnerving. "And I _like_ trouble."

"Not if it…involves…Hell's…punishment, you don't." Aziraphale retorted before taking in several shuddering breaths and then asking, "My dear…are you…all right?"

Crowley scowled. Trust the angel to worry about someone else when he was mostly dead himself. "Fine," he replied grudgingly, easing a hand under Aziraphale's side to get ready to move him.

"Good…w-won't…die…for…n-nothing…" Aziraphale said seriously, his eyes closing.

"You are _not_ dying," Crowley hissed vehemently and then paused, embarrassed. "Not after all the trouble I went through for you, that is." It was time for a Topic Change. (6) "Time to get you out of here. Think you can move?"

He put his right arm under Aziraphale's knees and then lifted him, his left holding onto the angel right beneath his wings. Aziraphale let out a small squeak of pain, but didn't make any other noise. Really, Crowley was impressed that he wasn't curled into a little ball crying—hellfire was, well, _Hell_ for an angel just like those dark swords and he'd been hurt with both and exposed to a whole lot of demonic Presences. Aziraphale was a tough bastard. A tough, poofy bastard, which seemed like an oxymoron but, somehow, wasn't.

"Now for the car." Crowley hurried—practically ran, actually—to the Bentley. He noted that the curb he'd run up on hadn't dared to scratch or damage the car in any way.

Carrying Aziraphale to the passenger side, he willed the door open. Normally the seat didn't recline, but the demon _wanted_ it to, so it did, and Crowley lowered Aziraphale, making sure to place him on his side so that the injured left wing could go behind the seat and not be sat upon. Aziraphale instinctively curled his right wing over himself, even though it was partially severed.

"oh…" The angel whispered, eyes shut tight. "oh." The little, lowercase 'oh's' might as well have been screams of agony for all the suffering they contained, but Aziraphale was too polite, too stubborn, too self-governing to let out any other sound. "oh."

"Can't you heal yourself at all?" Crowley asked as he got into the driver's seat, telling himself that the question sounded more annoyed than concerned.

"I…tried," Aziraphale murmured, his voice fading.

Crowley glanced over at him and stepped on the gas. They'd go back to his place. It wasn't as 'lived in' as the bookshop flat, but at least they wouldn't suffocate due to the sheer amount of dust there, unlike in Aziraphale's 'bedroom.' When they got there, he'd heal Aziraphale as best he could. The problem was that he was almost positive he couldn't heal the _unseen_ damage done to Aziraphale by contact with the demonic Presences, swords, and hellfire.

"You need to _keep_ trying," Crowley said, speeding the Bentley toward his place at 160 kilometers per hour while still avoiding killing anyone, so Aziraphale wouldn't revive them and waste what strength he had.

The angel didn't answer, just let out a slow, shuddering sigh and then stilled.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley asked sharply, the Bentley suddenly driving on a sidewalk and miraculously not killing anyone as the demon glanced over at his counterpart. "_Aziraphale_?"

"Mnh?" The angel's good eye opened slightly.

As soon as Aziraphale responded, Crowley jerked the car back onto the road and screeched around a corner.

And then they were at his flat. Crowley parked the Bentley and jumped out, going to the other side. "We're here."

Crowley slid his arm underneath Aziraphale and carefully reached for him. Despite his precaution, the angel moaned and sidled away. Almost tenderly, Crowley put his arms around him and eased him upwards.

"Easy there, easy." Crowley refused to allow his voice to waver. Aziraphale tried to help Crowley get him out of the car, but he ended up sagging back into oblivion. Crowley cursed and hefted him into his arms.

* * *

1. (Goodness and Holiness resistant, fire retardant, and waterproof gloves in stylish black leather, in case you wondered.) Crowley had learned the hard way to automatically do whatever the angel suggested when he said something like that. One such incidence that inspired Crowley's desire to follow such orders occurred sometime in the 13th century. Aziraphale had yelled, 'Crowley, turn away!' and then the angel had blessed an elderly, genuinely pure monk and his entire wagonload of junk, which had apparently included his monastery's entire collection of genuine holy relics. Crowley, who hadn't turned away nor possessed any sunglasses, had been blind for a fortnight after that incident. Aziraphale, for his part, had been sheepish and apologetic and acted as an annoying, overbearing nursemaid for the time it took the demon to recover.

2. If he'd had the time, Crowley might have wondered why it seemed he always ended up fighting with something odd, like a plant mister or a tire iron or a park bench leg.

3. Better the angel you knew, and all of that…

4. Some of these looks included… _I Beg Your Pardon?_ A slight rising of one eyebrow with lips pursed together.

_Really, My Dear. _One of the most withering looks of all and the most frequently used.

_I Must Admit I am Disappointed in You_. This one is actually rather common to the look employed by Mothers everywhere.

_Are You Going to Finish That?_ This one is used around sweets. Especially chocolate.

_Back Away From the Book. _Very possibly the angel's most threatening look, and the only one he has that rivals the angelic look of _Fear Mine Divine Wrath Thou Unworthy Worm_!

5. This is not an easy feat. Not just anyone can pull off a snort without making it sound as if they have a sinus infection, let alone while also making it derisive, dismissive, and belligerent sounding. Really, Crowley's snorts were something of an art.

6. Over centuries upon centuries, the Topic Change became an indispensable part of the Arrangement. Whenever one or the other of them got uncomfortable with the conversation, said the wrong thing, hit a nerve, or said something that seemed almost as though they were friends, a Topic Change was initiated. And lo, it was good.

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	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: **So I've been having a bit of a personal problem--been pretty sick--so sorry for the time between updates. And sorry if I sound out of it. I probably am.

Well, this chater is pretty Crowley-centric--it'd be hard not to be--and I tried my best to stay in character and add some amusing footnotes and bits because this is full of ouch, basically. I do hope you guys like it. Thanks for the feedback--you guys spur me on to write more even when I feel icky. I really appreciate it! (hearts all)

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**Chapter Eight**

Anthony J. Crowley carried Aziraphale into his flat, the door opening and closing behind him automatically. He realized it was quite possible that he should have taken the angel back to his own flat over the bookstore, but Crowley hadn't thought things out, really, he'd just known that he had to get Aziraphale out of the open to someplace safe. He hadn't planned any further than that, though he did make sure to give his plants a menacing, vicious look when he passed by them with an angel in his arms. The vegetation needed to know not to get any funny ideas that he was merciful or anything like that. (1)

Striding quickly into his bedroom, Crowley turned down the covers with a gesture and laid the angel belly down on the bed.

Aziraphale's wings—as well as his exposure to hellfire and the fact that he'd basically been demonically poisoned—were the biggest concerns. Crowley stared at the left wing, where so many of the bones were snapped, and then at the right wing, which was nearly sliced off and practically radiated poison. Both of them had been pierced through and were burnt along the bottom, the feathers shriveled and crisp or entirely melted away. This wasn't an injury one of them had gotten when drunk, (2) this was serious. Aziraphale was hurt badly, weakened, and he couldn't heal himself or combat the poison.He was fading. Dying. Whatever one called the angelic equivalent to death.

Crowley couldn't let that happen. He told himself that it was merely the same sort of sense of stubbornness that had made him hold on to the flaming Bentley at the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't. He'd _really_ started this journey—this existence, even—with Aziraphale, and by Go—the Guggenheim—he wasn't going to let the angel die now, not after they'd survived what was supposed to be the End together.

Squaring himself, Crowley put his hand on Aziraphale's right wing, determined to stop the corruption from spreading. Instantly, both of the angel's wings were flapping wildly, the right one dangling, nearly off, and the left one broken, floundering limply and bending in several places it wasn't supposed to. Possibly, Crowley should have enjoyed the sight of his Adversary during such torment, but he didn't. He gleaned not even the slightest amount of satisfaction from the continuous keening noise Aziraphale was making. In truth, the whole thing made Crowley slightly ill, a rather un-demonic reaction, he knew. Still. He didn't enjoy the suffering—not of _this_ angel.

Crowley struggled with the wings, trying to pin them down. It was an involuntary reaction, the beating, but that didn't stop Crowley from scowling at Aziraphale and barking, "You're safe, now, angel, so _calm down_."

He didn't reflect on what he'd said, although perhaps he should have. Aziraphale was a Principality—an injured, incapacitated Principality—currently in the claws, and care, of a demon. That should have been about as far away from safe as an angel could get. It wasn't. Without meaning to, Crowley had told him the truth (3). Aziraphale _was_ safe, at least from Crowley.

That didn't mean that Crowley was safe as long as Aziraphale was unaware, however. Even horribly damaged, one of the wings slammed Crowley in the face hard enough to send the demon reeling backward with his sunglasses broken. Crowley blessed under his breath, uncharacteristically not bothering to retrieve or to fix the shades—he figured they'd probably just get broken again sometime during the mending. Besides, something—someone—else had his full attention. (4)

Shaking his head, the demon dove back into the feathered fray and finally managed to pin Aziraphale down, one arm holding onto his left wing to make it stop moving. The right still flailed weakly, causing blood to fly everywhere and spatter Crowley's face.

"N-no," Aziraphale moaned, still unconscious but struggling. Probably, Crowley thought bitterly, the angel could sense his demonic Presence and counted him as an Enemy. Which he was, of course. Sort of. Crowley forced his Inner Voice to shut up.

"Stop it, Aziraphale," Crowley commanded. "You're just hurting yourself."

"W-will…not…" the angel whispered. "b'tray…Crowley…"

Something clenched deep down inside of the demon. Aziraphale really did, in his unaware state, think that Crowley was Hastur and that he was trying to force him to confess to the Arrangement by torturing him.

"You—you're all right now," Crowley finally said, reaching for his right wing. Aziraphale shuddered, cringing away.

Again, something inside of Crowley went taut, hardened, and then shattered into several pieces. "Lisssten to me, Azziraphale," Crowley hissed, his tone serious and, even more worrisome, _sincere_. "Hassstur can't hurt you …_no one'sss _going to hurt you again _ever_."

Er. Crowley blinked, surprised at what had come out of his own mouth. Well, he was just trying to calm the angel down. It wasn't like he meant it. (6)

Aziraphale's wing beats calmed and Crowley tried to hasten the process by saying awkwardly reassuring things to him, things such as, "It's all right, Aziraphale, I know your wing's half off, but you're safe," and the like, willing him to relax.

Eventually the angel settled down and Crowley very slowly and lightly put a hand on the poisoned, sliced through, _desecrated_ wing. Aziraphale twitched, and the wing trembled beneath his hand, but there wasn't any more resistance. Crowley almost would have preferred another confrontation to the weak shivering Aziraphale made because it made him think of his houseplants. Inexplicably, like so much of his relationship with the angel was, the demon didn't want Aziraphale to suffer from Fear of Crowley like the plants did.

"Easy there, easy." All of his reassurances were said gruffly, reluctantly—he wasn't any good at this sort of thing.

Concentrating, Crowley gathered his energy and channeled healing power through his hands and into the wing. He looked down. The wing had mostly reattached to Aziraphale's back, but there was still an inflamed, open cut there and the burns hadn't disappeared. Worst of all, the poison was still there, lurking under the surface like only a demonic contamination can.

"Bless it to Hel—Hea—Huddersfield," Crowley swore. He'd _tried_ to heal it all at once. For a moment he felt fury build inside him—he was incensed at Hastur, who had dared torture the angel, and even at Aziraphale, who had been tormented because he'd guarded Crowley like a fool. Fangs-bared in frustration, Crowley carefully felt the base of the wing, where it had been detached, and the faint red mark there was blazing much more than the others had been. His anger at Aziraphale cooled down into something approaching panic and he stared at the angel.

Reptilian eyes do not lend themselves to expressing sympathy or grief or worry or any of the so called 'softer' emotions. Such eyes—the eyes of a snake, or more specifically, a Serpent, are geared more toward looking angry, sneaky, evil, tempting, wicked, sexy, wicked sexy, sarcastic, and a host of other similar things. Correspondingly, any demon—especially one with said reptilian eyes—can not care for someone other than his self. It just isn't done.

And yet A. J. Crowley, a demon with decidedly reptilian eyes, clenched his fists in frustration as he looked at the pale, trembling angel with an expression that managed to contain not only anger, but also commiseration and remorse and concern and, worst of all, a tinge of fear. Fear that he wasn't going to be able to save Aziraphale.

Why would a demon fear such a thing? He _ought_ to have been fearing his superiors, though they'd so far left him alone after the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't, since they could find out he'd destroyed a Duke with a Principality-Blessed bench leg. But he wasn't afraid of them, not yet. He was afraid Aziraphale would die. And that meant that demons really could care for beings other than themselves. They could care for an angel—they could care for, in particular, their _only friend_ in the bloody universe. Crowley grimaced at that thought and mentally manhandled it to the same padded cell in his brain that his Little Voice of Hope always occupied. Just to be safe, he chained the Only Friend Thought to the padded wall. Okay. Time to focus. He had to help Aziraphale. (7)

Again the demon sent healing power through his hands and this time the cut knitted together, the swelling in the wing went down, and the beginnings of a few new feathers materialized, though there was still a red line marking where the sword had sliced him. It was the mark of the poison. He knew he'd have to wait a moment before tackling the ravages made by the hellfire along the bottom of the wing, but he was glad the base, at the least, had been healed and he manifested the energy to change Aziraphale's ragged clothing into a light dressing gown.

Aziraphale's wings moved again and Crowley readied himself for a battle, but the motion was more of a spasm. The angel murmured something, moved his head, and clenched his fists. Crowley realized he was waking up so he went to stand by the top of the bed. He maintained a carefully blank expression as he fixated on the angel's white face. The black bruising under both of Aziraphale's eyes made him seem younger somehow, vulnerable; his nose was bloody and broken; his left eye was swollen shut entirely whereas the right looked like it might open to a slit; the only color to his face other than the bruising and the blood was the flush of a fever; and both of his full lips were pale, the only color on them where they had been split open and swelled.

Golden-blonde eyelashes fluttered and then Aziraphale peered up at Crowley with his right eye, which was filled with a delirium that utterly unnerved the demon. The angel was ill. Because of him.

"Cr…Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, his voice weak as he limply raised his hand from the bed and reached for him.

Hesitating for only a second, Crowley took the offered hand and held it. He wasn't a comforter and the gesture embarrassed him, but the only thing that mattered was keeping Aziraphale alive. Because he didn't want to lose the Arrangement, of course. It was convenient with less work and—he shut himself up.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale asked again, tremulously.

"Yeah, I'm here," he said. "What is it?

"you…healed…me…?"

"A little—you're still far from being well, though, angel," Crowley warned, as the heavenly being tried to push himself up onto his elbows. Finally Aziraphale stilled, squeezing Crowley's hand in what was unmistakably a thank you.

Automatically Crowley shifted from one foot to another. "I'm just paying you back. The whole, you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours, kind of thing."

"back…d'nt itch," Aziraphale mumbled, feverishly. "Hurts…wings're…worse."

"I'm taking care of it," Crowley replied.

There was silence for a while as Aziraphale met his gaze, a worried frown on his face. Crowley again shifted; he didn't have his shades on and he knew his eyes must remind the angel that he, too, was a demon, shoving the fact in the Principality's face right after he'd been attacked by a bunch of Hell spawn.

Aziraphale gazed into the golden-yellow eyes with his brow furrowed. "D'you think…our ducks're…all right?" he slurred.

For a moment Crowley just stared, his snake eyes widened. Aziraphale had been tortured, was currently poisoned with a demonic taint, and was utterly at the mercy of a demon and he was asking about the _ducks_?

"You want to know if the ducks are all right," Crowley said. It wasn't a question, just a statement.

"…yes," Aziraphale whispered.

"They're fine."

"'S nice…I scared 'em…fallin'…inna water…"

"They're fine. Now try and focus on getting yourself well, okay?" Crowley paused. "Try to heal again."

"You…" Aziraphale surveyed him as critically as he could with one good eye. "_You_ well?"

Crowley regretted not disguising his injuries. He hadn't treated them because they weren't life threatening and he would need all the healing power he had for Aziraphale.

"I'm fine," the demon replied testily. "Just heal yourself, all—"

Crowley cut off the sentence when warmth suddenly spread through the hand that was holding Aziraphale's and a tingly sensation engulfed his skin. His side mended, the scratch marks disappeared, his wrists no longer were punctured; all of the larger injuries sustained in the fight with Hastur were gone.

As soon as the tingling sensation stopped, Aziraphale's hand went slack in Crowley's and the angel let out a faint, pained cry. The eau-de-essence-of-angel-and-dust-and-books perfume that Aziraphale always radiated dimmed.

Before he realized it, Crowley was hissing. "You shouldn't have done that you sstupid bassstard! You can't even heal _yoursself_."

The angel winced. "S'rry," he murmured. "Had to…"

"You bloody well did not! You should have saved your strength, moron." Carefully enunciating, Crowley stopped each hiss that wanted to come. He'd been hissing a lot and that meant he was upset, excited, tense—in a state of high emotion, basically. He needed to calm down.

Aziraphale's open eye slid shut and more of the color, the faint glow he retained, faded. Crowley bent down next to him hurriedly.

"You'd better not be dead," he growled, but when he searched he could still feel that same, weak light that was Aziraphale's Presence. "Stupid, stupid angel," Crowley muttered, but he set the angel's hand down gently and went back to work.

* * *

1. The plants already knew that, of course. Besides, they'd noticed that after The-Being-That-Felt-Like-A-Nice-Mild-Sunny-Day-That-Was-Not-Too-Cloudy (basically a plant's concept of angelic Presence) left the apartment after one of his infrequent visits, the Master was often worse to them than usual. (One Geranium recalled a nasty incident with the paper shredder and an unfortunate Peace Lily, may it rest in pieces.) (I know, horrible pun, but Geraniums don't have much literary prowess. Or taste.)

2. Although the demon had healed and been healed from many such injuries. One memorable occasion was when Aziraphale had attempted to prove to Crowley that the lions of the Roman Coliseum were merely hungry, mistreated little things rather than, as Crowley maintained, animals driven crazy with said ill treatment and starvation. The angel insisted that kindness and a decent meal could help anything. (In Aziraphale's defense, he slurred a lot when he said it and wasn't quite sure _what_ he was saying.) (In Crowley's defense, he hadn't tried to talk the angel into it overmuch.) (And to defend them both, neither of them had come close to sobering up.) In the end, Crowley had to miracle the lions asleep and then heal the scratches swiped across the drunken angel's backside as he retreated. Lions, especially starved, ill-treated, crazy ones, are territorial about any raw meat they encounter and defend it furiously, even from the being they received it from. (No matter how fairly he divided it between them or how politely he spoke.) Besides, Aziraphale's plump behind had looked like desert. (The carnivore's equivalent to a donut, as it were.)

3. Most of the time that Crowley told the Truth it was on accident. (A slip of the forked tongue, so to speak.) Either that or the Truth somehow managed to suit his own needs and that way he could speak it without Aziraphale giving him that annoying, _I'm Proud of You, My Dear, I _Told_ You That You Have a Spark of Goodness in You_ look. Neither the angel nor the demon would acknowledge the fact that after so many millennia together, Crowley told the truth more than was necessary for a demon and Aziraphale, at the least, hedged subjects like an expert. (Angels can't lie very well, after all, so Aziraphale mimicked certain demons and certain government officials by determined avoidance.)

4. Which was a good thing. Taking care of and healing and rescuing an injured angel was, for lack of a better analogy, going to be about as easy and as much fun for Crowley as it would have been for him to host a _My Little Pony _themed birthday party complete with mimes **(5)** for a bunch of chubby toddlers with overtly religious parents.

5. Hell—and Crowley specifically—refused to take the blame for mimes. Heaven—as well as Aziraphale—didn't claim them either. Thus the human race was once again proven capable of creating extreme evil on its own.

6. Except that he did. Another example of Crowley inadvertently telling the truth.

7. The Only Friend Thought metaphorically stuck out its tongue and made a rude gesture with its free hand. Its point had been proved.

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: **Here's the next chapter! I divided it up a bit, mostly so you can see the footnotes easier. But it's all the same chapter.

I hope you guys like it, I really appreciate any and all feedback! Thanks so much for the comments, everybody!

I still don't own Crowley and Aziraphale. Sadly.

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**000000**

**Chapter Nine**

Agony. Terrible, never-ending misery. Aziraphale had never first had the flesh flayed off of him and then been dropped into a vat of boiling water while a parasitic carnivore nibbled on him from the inside out, but that was basically what he felt was happening. (1)

Not that he was coherent or conscious enough to come to that conclusion. Aziraphale knew only pain. There was only pain. Pain and…a voice? An insistent, constant, almost pleading voice. Something made him want to pay attention to that voice, to listen to it, but he couldn't quite assemble the strength to do so.

* * *

1. Interestingly enough, there was a small, all female sect in ancient Egypt that once used this particular blend of torture as the punishment for any member who revealed the sacred rites or forgot to bring a dish to the potluck. Eventually the sect leaders decided that boiling all that water was, honestly, a pain, that flaying flesh really tired one's arms, and that finding and _affording_ the parasitic carnivores wasn't worth the effort, so they devised a different method of torture. The newer torture was making the victim, no matter her age or appearance, watch a much more beautiful, thinner, and younger woman dance the _raqs sharqi_—which actually translates to 'oriental dance' although it is often referred to as the belly dance. Afterward, the victim was made to watch as the dancer ate all the honey cakes and dates she wanted without ever gaining a pound. Several of the loose-tongued or forgetful members, that had experienced both types of torture, maintained that the new torture was much more gruesome than the bit with the flaying and boiling and being nibbled on.

* * *

**000000**

"I'm telling you, you'd better _not_ die, Aziraphale," Crowley continued his prattling, talking and talking as if to drown out the angel's moans of pain or the very fact of his illness. "Or I will be really, really," he tried to think of an appropriate word or phrase. Finally, he settled on saying, "_Really_ incensed. _Beyond_ incensed."

_That_ was telling him. If he were conscious, Aziraphale would have rolled his eyes, not the least bit intimidated. Apparently Crowley's Threatening powers had gone out the window along with his calm. (1)

The truth was that Crowley was concerned. Vexed, even. Although he might not have exactly claimed the angel on his 'next of kin' list or anything—not that Hell cared enough to _have_ 'next of kin' lists—Crowley couldn't deny that since they had the Arrangement, the two of them were undoubtedly, if sometimes regrettably, attached. It had been that way even before the Arrangement, really. True, they'd had their brief moments of smiting and fighting at first, but that had really happened because they had both been under strict surveillance by their respective sides at the time. The thing was, although Pre-Arrangement Aziraphale and Crowley might have been Enemies—after all, technically _Post-Arrangement_ Aziraphale and Crowley still were—they had been _amicable _enemies. And at this point it had been a _long_ time since the Arrangement and really, if Crowley were to listen to his Voice of Truth (2), he'd have realized that the relationship he had with the angel went beyond the Arrangement, was more personal. If Aziraphale ceased to exist—it was unimaginable. The angel didn't deserve to die.

Really, Crowley reflected, all this thinking was driving him crazy. He shook his head and continued his work on Aziraphale's right wing, pulling out the remains of the scorched feathers and trying not to pull the blistered flesh off as well. "Sorry." The demon mumbled the foreign-to-him word when the angel flinched, but he didn't even realize he'd said it, such was his focus. "Almost done."

The next step was actually healing the part of the wing mutilated by hellfire, which meant that Crowley was going to have to put both of his hands on the blistered, blackened flesh which would basically put Aziraphale as close to Hell as he would ever get with the pain before the healing worked. Sucking in a breath, Crowley quickly put his palms on the damaged area and sent all the healing power he could summon through his hands, concentrating as hard as he could.

Aziraphale screamed. He screamed, his right wing shook, and his left wing smacked into Crowley reflexively. The demon ignored the pain when Aziraphale's left wing slammed into him and bloodied his nose—he figured he deserved it. It was his fault the angel was hurt and he was the one hurting him now, even if he was doing it to heal him.

"Okay, I'm finished, the right wing's over with," Crowley said, backing away, wiping the blood from his nose, and trying not to join Aziraphale in shaking.

He surveyed the wing from a distance—the visible injuries were all repaired, but he knew the damage the hellfire had done was still there, under the surface, along with the poison of the flaming sword and the draining effect being exposed to so many demonic Presences must have had on Aziraphale. (3)

"That was the worst bit," Crowley lied, his voice forcibly cheerful. "You'll be better in a minute, wanting to go check on the ducks or do some other daft, angelic thing…"

The demon kept talking, trying to calm both himself and the angel down. Briefly, Crowley considered miracling himself a stiff drink, but if Aziraphale had to suffer, he would too. Oh great, Crowley thought, now he was being self sacrificing and _sympathetic_. That was it. That was the straw that broke the…the four-footed animal's back.

He should just get knackered and let the angel fend for himself. After all, Crowley reasoned, he _had_ gotten Aziraphale out of the open and fixed one of his wings… It was possible, though very unlikely, that maybe Aziraphale could heal himself or another angel would come and heal him while Crowley was gone, or _something_.

The demon paused, narrowing his eyes and considering, and then he looked deep inside himself. (4) And then he let out a long, suffering sigh. Well, drinking alone was never as fun, anyway.

"Now for the other wing," Crowley grumbled, annoyed in general but most of all with himself. He looked over to the left wing, which was going to be possibly less pleasant than the right one had been, for both him and Aziraphale. "I hope you know, angel, that I will personally set fire to all of your books if you die after all of this."

* * *

1. Which wasn't, on the whole, surprising. After all, a lot of things went out Crowley's window. The imp hadn't been the first instance of something crashing through it, in any case. Crowley himself had jumped out of it before and once Aziraphale was nearly hit on top of the head by a particularly vexing Begonia that was hurtled through the window to crash to a messy death. (After that incident, none of the rest of the plants in the apartment had sported so much as a single spot of brown for several months and Aziraphale had made it a point to always approach the flat's entrance carefully.) Many of the aforementioned instances had, naturally, involved alcohol.

2. He didn't, of course. At least not on any level where he might actually have to admit it to himself. If anything that looked like a personification of Truth or a little cricket carrying an umbrella ever approached Crowley, his first instinct would always be to squish it.

3. As for Crowley's own demonic Presence, he had, subconsciously, before he even thought about it, threatened his own Presence into a metaphorical closet, telling it to stay there until the angel felt better. Had Crowley actually realized he had done this, and worse, done it _instinctively_, he would have been rather put out. Thus his own self-preservation mechanism and personal dignity-maintainer made sure he _didn't_ realize it.

4. His Spark of Goodness looked back at him. They had a long, figurative stare-down, Crowley and his Spark, yellow-gold snake eyes to little beams of light in the darkness.

* * *

**000000**

The voice was still there, still talking. Aziraphale knew, deep down, that he recognized the voice, but he also knew, somehow, that waking up to listen to it would be painful. Perhaps he could compromise, wake up for a little while, and then go back to nothingness. Nothingness was a lot better than pain, although truthfully, pain was always there, even in the nothingness, but it was less than in general, it was a glimpse of pain.

The voice stopped for a moment and then continued, sounding worried and annoyed. Rather against what might have been his better judgment, Aziraphale opened his eye—the left one still didn't cooperate—and tried to focus through the throbbing agony of his body.

Crowley was nearby, pacing up and down the length of his wing and staring down at it. "Camel," the demon said abruptly.

"…camel?" Aziraphale wondered if Crowley had really spoken or if he was imagining things.

"The straw that broke the _camel's_ back," Crowley responded automatically before he looked over at Aziraphale in sudden realization that he'd spoken. One feverish blue eye looked at startled yellow ones.

"Bless it," Crowley muttered on seeing him awake. It'd be better for both of them if the angel wasn't conscious when healed.

"…'s nice…t'…see you…too…" Aziraphale mumbled, still slurring. Dimly he recognized that he was extremely out of sorts, probably in a similar state to humans when they were feverish. Actually, the angel _was_ feverish; he was burning up as well as delirious, he just didn't recognize the symptoms, being delirious enough not to make the connection.

Crowley shook his head. "I mean, it's going to hurt like—like—"

"…blazes…?" Aziraphale asked helpfully.

"When I heal you."

The angel remembered fuzzily the fiery agony and the endless torment he'd felt in his right wing during the healing, but he also recalled that the voice had been there the whole time, reassuring him. (1) "Thank—"

"_Please_ don't start that." Crowley snapped, moving closer. "Listen. This really will hurt—"

"'s'okay…Crowley…" Aziraphale's voice became more and more slurred as he slid back down into unconsciousness. "I…trus' you…"

Crowley froze and stared down at his counterpart for a long moment. Aziraphale was again insensible. He'd said he trusted him. The surprise he'd initially felt at the angel's words slid off Crowley's face and turned into something that looked like regret or sorrow or a mixture of both.

"I know you do," the demon muttered, preparing himself to start on the left wing. "I almost wish you didn't."

* * *

1. And, on the occasion, threatening him. Or both reassuring and threatening at the same time, a feat only Crowley could accomplish convincingly. At any rate, Crowley—the voice—had been there the whole time and that was what mattered.

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	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note:** Here's the next chapter! This took me forever to write. Really. Somewhere in another dimension, and possibly on a spinning wheel, I am probably still writing this chapter...

xD

Okay so it wasn't that bad, but still. So tell me if you like it, please, and I'll know whether the effort was worth it and I'm really done or if it still needs some work.

I divided this into sections because footnote three is monster long and I didn't want you all to have to scroll a jillion ways down to see the notes.

Thanks for the comments and for reading this everyone! :D

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**000000**

**Chapter Ten**

Sometimes, Anthony J. Crowley thought that his Spark of Goodness and his Little Voice of Hope were conspiring against him. (1) The V. of H. was the small, stupid part of Crowley that had secretly trusted that as soon as Hastur died, everything would be all right. After he killed Hastur, he would have helped a somehow already-doing-better Aziraphale back to the bookshop and be on his way—after all, demons didn't help convalescing angels—and then, in a couple of days, he would have brought by some alcohol. As usual, things didn't pan out that way. Bloody stupid Voice.

As for the Spark of Goodness, well, it was what got him in this mess in the first place. Instead of drinking himself into a stupor, Crowley was using all his demonic strength to keep a frantic Principality pinned to the bed as the bones of his left wing were tugged into place. The noises (2) were absolutely nauseating but the worst part was having to fight the angel and occasionally hurt him as he did so.

Eyes closed and probably still unaware, Aziraphale fought to get away from Crowley, the current source of his pain. The healing was almost as hard on him as the injuries. Blessing a blue streak, the demon tried to hurry as Aziraphale mumbled feverishly, once telling Hastur to go back to Hell, once calling for Crowley, and once asserting that no, that book _wasn't_ on sale, thank you very much.

Crowley finished healing the broken bones as fast as he could, and then he closed the ragged hole where the wing had been pinned to the tree. Now he had to move on to the burns.

"Almost finished, hang on, Aziraphale," Crowley whispered while he tried his best to rush. Just as he was pulling out several charred feathers, Aziraphale made a little moan and woke up. (3)

The Principality gave the demon a confused, fever-bright look. "…you…pluckin' me?"

Crowley almost smiled—Aziraphale sounded absolutely incredulous even as he slurred. "These feathers have to come out. They've been badly burnt."

"B'rnt?" The angel asked fuzzily, and then remembered the flames of Hell surrounding him. "'M alive?"

"Yes," Crowley said irritably. "You're _fine_." He said it as though if spoke forcefully enough, it would be true. Seeing Aziraphale furrow his brows in a familiar look, he added, "And the ruddy ducks are fine and _I'm_ fine because you went ahead and healed me like a stupid prat."

Aziraphale was obviously struggling with the fever and the pain, but he seemed slightly more alert. "Crowley…'m…quite sick."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," he sighed.

"Mnh?" The angel creased his forehead. "'Oose he?"

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Never mind." He started to move away from the bed to start healing the wing but Aziraphale reached out and grabbed his sleeve.

"I wan' you t' know…" It was obviously an effort for the angel to speak.

"Don't waste your energy talking," the demon said sternly.

Aziraphale acted like he hadn't heard him. "You…were…righ'." He tightened his grip on Crowley's sleeve. "Good…Evil...jus' names…for sides." Crowley shifted as Aziraphale continued. "You're…my frien'. My on'y frien'."

"Oookay angel," Crowley said, taking Aziraphale's hand, pulling it off his sleeve, and setting it back down on the bed. But he did it gently. He decided Aziraphale was much too forthcoming when delirious. "Now that you've got that off your chest, I need to heal—"

The angel wasn't finished and managed to stop Crowley in mid sentence by the slight lift on an eyebrow and a disapproving, if delirious, glance. "'F I…die…take care o' yourself …an' 'member t' feed the ducks."

"If you die, Aziraphale," Crowley hissed, "I will turn every one of those bloody ducks into _Cassoulet_!" (4)

"My dear," the angel chided in a frighteningly weak tone. "No need…t' be veng'ful…"

"I'm a _demon_; vengeful is what we _do_." He glared. "So if you care about those stupid ducks at all," he silently thought 'or me,' "Then you _won't_ die. You hear me?"

"…hear you…"

"So go on and heal, angel," Crowley said. Feeling faintly ridiculous, he added, "Do it for the ducks, for Somebody's sake. And for your books. And the snuffboxes."

_And_, Crowley's mind traitorously thought, _for _me_._ The angel lifted his hand off his chest, reaching, and Crowley took it for the second time. Aziraphale squeezed his hand limply, and then his eye closed and a little more of his Presence faded.

* * *

1. Actually, he thought that all the time. And he believed that it was highly probable that _everyone_ was conspiring against him. Up There, Down There, the humans, any of them could be. He shared Yossarian's ideal that "the enemy is anybody who's going to get you killed, no matter which side he's on" (from Joseph Heller's _Catch 22_.) So yes, he counted everyone against him just in case—except maybe Aziraphale, and the angel actually _had_ to thwart him. So really, the only being/thing/person in the Universe that wasn't conspiring against him was the very one who had the best reason to. Fate laughs at things like that. Laugh so hard she squirts milk out her nose. Yes, Fate drinks milk. It does a body (and an anthropomorphic entity) good.

2. Aziraphale's wing bones and slight muscles being put back and coaxed into place made more snaps, crackles, and pops than even the most enthusiastic kid's cereal.

3. The term 'woke up' being used loosely, of course. In actuality, Aziraphale had been more aware and with it that one time when Crowley had given him a first edition version of the latest_ Complete Bartender's Guide to Drinks_ for Christm—er, the winter gift exchange—and they'd decided to go through the giant book and miracle the recipes they fancied into existence to try them. They hadn't actually made all of them, but they had giggled—yes, giggled, which should tell you how drunk they really were—over several of the names such as Sand In Your Shorts, Fancy Nancy, and Apocalypse. Aziraphale had quite liked Apocalypse, which was an odd mixture of peppermint schnapps, vodka, Kahlua, whiskey, crème de menthe, Southern Comfort peach liqueur and hot chocolate. (Yes _Southern_ liqueur.) Crowley hadn't tried it, claiming one Apocalypse period would be enough during his existence, thanks.

They had tried all kinds of drinks, including a cocktail called Angel Face that was made with gin, apricot brandy, and _apple_ brandy. At the time, Crowley seemed to think this was significant. ('Sssssee, angel faccccce, the one wif angel inna name hasss apple'ssss in it, too' Crowley had hissed to an un-amused Aziraphale.) To counter the Angel Face, Aziraphale had flipped to the 'S' section and miracled up Snake In the Grass and Snakebite. (Snakebite the drink was much more pleasant than snakebite the experience, and Aziraphale had certainly suffered through both during his existence. Though he'd only had the drink that once.) The angel had, in addition, _started_ to miracle up a drink called Snake Piss, but Crowley—who had been way beyond extremely drunk—had said he knew of a quicker way to get some of _that_ in a glass and Aziraphale had hurriedly desisted from that escapade.

Both of them thought that Fallen Angel was overrated. It had been too bitter, somewhat fittingly, for Crowley, and it had made Aziraphale sad. (Lime juice always, for some inexplicable reason, makes Aziraphale extremely sad when drunk. Of course, he could have been sympathizing with Crowley. Or have been in one of his 'sad drunk' modes.)

4. _Cassoulet_ is, essentially, a kind of fancy French duck soup.

* * *

**000000**

For a moment, Crowley closed his own eyes, holding Aziraphale's limp hand, and then he put the hand softly back on the bed. He went to the angel's wing and healed it. As soon as the flesh was whole again, the demon dropped onto the edge of the bed. He was drained of a lot of his energy after the extensive healing, but his posture over the injured angel was protective instead of fatigued. The Serpent's yellow-gold eyes were weary in every sense of the word as he looked down at his counterpart.

Aziraphale was still on his stomach, lying flaccidly with his legs curled up close to him, his wings shivering, and his hands twitching. He was breathing fitfully, every breath a wheeze, which had to be hurting those ribs of his. Leaning over him, Crowley once again gathered up some strength and placed a hand on Aziraphale's side, sending healing power coursing through to mend the broken ribs.

The wheezing stopped, though the moment Crowley had touched him, Aziraphale shuddered and let out a small whimper. Swallowing, Crowley concentrated on looking stoically nonchalant, but even so, he reluctantly touched Aziraphale's arm. Unsure about this whole consoling thing, Crowley patted said arm and cleared his throat. "There there, angel." Pat pat. "There there." Pat pat pat.

Aziraphale made a small noise of what sounded like protest. (5)

"You're all right, you're safe now, the worst of it's over," Crowley continued, still patting and even reflexively trying to send the angel feelings of safety and calm.

Eventually Aziraphale quieted, although he was still shivering. The fever—a symptom of his exposure to hellfire, demonic Presences, and occult-weapon poisoning— was the biggest worry. Well, actually the causes of the fever were the biggest worries. Even though all his major injuries were healed—Crowley would take care of the minor ones after he rested—it still could be Game Over Insert Coin all over again, except it was Aziraphale's existence that would end, not the world's. (6) In which case, Crowley would survive. Contrary to the popular sentiment that dark can only survive with light and vice versa, it actually was quite possible for one to survive without the other. The end of Aziraphale would not kill Crowley in some sort of yin-yang of balance reminiscent of the _urRu_ Mystics and vulture-looking _Skeksis_ in _The Dark Crystal_ movie.

The worst that would happen to Crowley would be that he'd end up without anyone to thwart his wiles or correct his grammar; without anyone to express confusion at his 'quaint, colloquial expressions' or give him looks designed to incite Guilt; without anyone to force him to breathe in years and years of dust in that moldy old bookshop; without even the possibly of getting in trouble because he was working with, and might be too fond of, the Enemy. There'd be none of that. No smell of books and tea and dust lingering in his apartment after a visit, no more having to double his Threatening of the plants after the angel told them they were lovely, no more tweed and tartan and woolen socks or bowler hats. And no one to drink with, no one to commiserate with, no one to go to the Ritz with, no one to stand against Above and Below with. No Aziraphale.

"No." It wasn't quite a hiss, wasn't quite a growl, but Crowley said it in a dangerous, threatening tone of voice all the same. He wasn't exactly sure if he was talking to Aziraphale or to Him or _who_.

"No," he repeated. "It'sss not going to happen."

Crowley looked at Aziraphale. The angel was pale overall, except for the flush of the fever, and he was immensely hot, especially in the areas of the red streaks that showed the toxicity under the surface. It wasn't a problem if his body died, not really—at least it would be possible for him to get a new one. But the damage from Hastur had been done to his true form.

Maybe he should try to get the angel to drink something, maybe it would help to bring the fever down or soothe him. For a second, Crowley thought about materializing a cup of water or tea but what would he actually do with it? Hold the angel's nose, prop his head and pour it down his throat? Doubtful. He really _really_ wasn't any good at these comforting/nursemaid roles. (7)

What could he do? He was a demon. (8) Aziraphale was suffering from demonic induced illness. So…as a demon…could he draw out the poison somehow? That way the angel would only have to deal with the exposure to it all? Crowley narrowed his eyes. There was only one way to find out.

* * *

5. Which would figure. Even unconscious, Aziraphale was objecting to an action of Crowley's.

6. Yes, the authoress could have written, 'though really, Aziraphale _was _the world to Crowley,' but in all honesty, that's awfully sappy. And it should be obvious anyway… ;D

7. For the record, Crowley wasn't good at accepting being doctored or being comforted either. In fact, Aziraphale, when taking care of an injured Crowley, always prepared himself to sustain a few injuries such as plucked feathers, a wing smacking into his nose, maybe a bite or two in the old days, and always lots and lots of profanity, cursing, hissing, whining, and Nasty Looks.

8. That wasn't the most intelligent thought Crowley had ever had. It might have been the most obvious one.

* * *


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: **I do hope you guys like this chapter. It has a new scene, btw, in between C and A's scenes, but they all eventually connect, but probably not in the way you think. ;D

Lemme know what you think, please, I'll hug you. Or, if you're more of the 'touch me and die' types, I'll NOT hug you. :D

PS) Another GIANT footnote here, you have been warned. xD

PPS) I still don't own GO or A and C. Gaiman and Pratchett do.

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Chapter Eleven

All in all, Crowley decided, this wasn't one of his better ideas. (1) What did he think he was; the Poison Whisperer? That he could call to it and it'd come? Was he supposed to whistle and say, 'here, boy, here boy?'

More to the point, was he really going to risk his own existence for Aziraphale? _Again_? If Hell found out what he was doing…well, what they'd do to him would make suicide by taking a holy water shower seem appealing.

The demon ran a hand through his hair. Fact: Aziraphale was an angel and the Enemy. Fact: Crowley was one of the Fallen and a demon. Fact: A demon that had an angel at his mercy ought to, by Hell's rules and common sense, torture the angel unmercifully. Fact: Most angels would expect such a fate, even if they had some sort of Arrangement.

In essence, his very nature was against him. And the angel's nature was against him. And everyone in Hell was _Definitely_ against him. In fact, Crowley was reminded him of a road back at the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't that had been blocked by lorry, corrugated iron, and a 30 foot high pile of fish—that's how effectively everything was against him. (2)

To go back to the facts… Fact: Aziraphale was NOT most angels and had already feverishly proclaimed he trusted the demon and that the demon was his only friend.

Fact: Anthony J. Crowley, aka _the_ Serpent, just couldn't bring himself to do anything to Aziraphale other than to help the vulnerable Principality. Fact: Crowley was in his own estimation, basically screwed.

He'd already shown his true colors, hadn't he? He'd rushed into the park and challenged a Duke, fully expecting to die. It was pathetic. It was soppy. It was like something the _angel_ would do.

Nevertheless, Crowley had confirmed—without meaning to—the fact that he was willing to risk his own life for Aziraphale's. (3) Somehow he had become Crowley's best and only friend and thinking of losing the angel forever made Crowley feel like he was back in the flaming Bentley heading toward the end of the world alone, except this time he could feel the flames and the pain of his sizzling flesh, could sense the unending horror to come, could feel the continuous darkness of a world without Aziraphale. Oh for G-Sa-the love of Welsh television he really _was_ getting soppy.

Sighing and cracking his knuckles, Crowley summoned his strength and tried to call the demonic poison to him. He was waiting for Aziraphale to scream, or shudder, or flap his wings, but nothing happened. The demon looked down and realized he wasn't actually touching the angel.

Feeling like an idiot—and worse than that, a _stupid-sentimental-poor-excuse-for-a-demon_ idiot—Crowley put his hand on one of the red streaks at the base of Aziraphale's right wing. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, summoning his demonic Presence, trying to call out to the evil-created poison coursing through the angel so he could dispel it.

* * *

1. And he'd had some darn good ideas in his time—and not just the dread sigil Odegra on the M25 or Welsh-language television, either. He had _loads_ of accomplishments. Crowley always tried to give credit where credit was due, particularly if said credit belonged to himself.

He was, for instance, rather proud of the long term outcome of classified ads that he'd begun so long ago. 'Illiterate? Write today for free help.' 'Dog for sale: eats anything and is fond of children.' 'We do not tear your clothing with machinery. We do it carefully by hand.' And the _Personal_ Classified ads, such as the ones titled 'An offr u cn't rubbish' (probably meant 'refuse,' poor bugger) and 'Come N meet Mr. Lonely,' particularly amused him.

Crowley was also pleased with himself after he created the art of _Chindogu_, which is the Japanese phrase for 'bloody useless inventions that only really bored or pathetic people make.' After all, to go along with _Chindogu_, Crowley had invented those magazines that everyone gets that contain all those funny little products that no one ever needs and that hardly ever work… Buy Now: _Butter in A Tube!_

_No Batteries Needed Crank-Torch!_ (Small Print: You Only Have to Crank it One Hundred Times in Order for it to Work for Five Seconds!)

_Dancing Animal I-Pod Holder!_ (Batteries Not Included.)

_Fireproof Matches! _(Not for use on fires.)

_Tamagotchi_—little electronic pets in an egg thingy! (Not for children under the age of twelve.)

_And much more!_

Perhaps most nefariously, he'd personally invested a fair amount of time perfecting the first automated telephone message system. After that, in order to fill up his torture quota, he'd picked a day and tested it the system out on all the unsuspecting humans who dialed 999, the United Kingdom's emergency services number.

A Sample of a Call on That Day:

Electronic, Vaguely Female, Cheerful Voice: Hello, what service do you require?

Caller: Hi, I need to—

Electronic Voice: Press one if you require the police, press two if you require the ambulance service, press three if you require fire service, press seven if you require the coastguard. If you are unable to press the buttons or do not have a touch-tone phone, please repeat the service you need in a clear voice.

Caller: (presses two)

Voice: I'm sorry, that is not a valid option. (Repeats previous spiel.)

Caller: Ambulance service.

Voice: (beeps irritatingly) Please repeat your request.

Caller: Ambulance service!

Voice: Did you say, 'Coast Guard?' If yes, press one, if no, press two. Or, you could… (Goes through same spiel again)

Caller: (Presses 2) Ambulance service! I need an Ambulance!

Voice: I'm sorry, I did not understand that. Please repeat your request.

Caller: Ambulance service, Ambulance service!!

Voice: Did you say: 'A monkey's in my pants?'

Caller: No, you stupid ass, I said _AMBULANCE SERVICE! _I've just seen a car accident and they need an ambulance! The driver's leg is hanging off!

Voice: I'm sorry, did you just call me a 'stupid ass'? If yes, press one to hear Derisive Remarks; if no, press two and repeat your request…

And so it went on and on. It should probably be mentioned that, despite Crowley's wishes, the system has not yet been installed in the 999 service and was only used on that one day, and—just to stick to the Agreement, of course—he made sure no one died.

2. The compulsory reference to a direct line from the actual _Good Omens_ text.

3. And, had there been such a class as Demon 101, the first lesson would have been 'put thyself and thine own wellbeing first.' The rule would of course exclude Satan. Naturally demons were supposed to put Lucifer above everything, including themselves, but that was such a given it wouldn't have been put into the rulebook. It's an unspoken law that, if it is broken, has horrific consequences. Just like the sort of consequences that happen to any one that gives out fruitcake at the holidays.

* * *

**000000**

**Elsewhere…**

An angel, glowing golden in all his holy raiment, snuck past the Metatron—who was berating a secretary about taking 'proper' messages and using the words 'useless twaddle' a lot—toward the rather unassuming door that led to God's Office.

The angel ran a hand through simultaneously golden and fiery hair, and then straightened his robes in a way that would have been called nervous had it been anyone but an Archangel making the gesture. This particular Archangel happened to be Raphael, known also as God Has Healed, Prince of the Presence, Regent of the Sun, and Divine Healer. From him the fidgeting seemed methodical. He went to the door, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, 'you're one of the seven,' and opened it.

At first the Archangel was immersed in darkness, but for some reason a strange image of a bizarre game of poker played with blank cards there in the dark occurred to Raphael before the Lord materialized, a beam of light shimmering until into the shape of a young woman. (1) She smiled at the Healer and Raphael noticed that the office had suddenly turned into a place that looked rather like the Sahara Desert.

"My Lord, my light—" Raphael began, falling to his knees out of habit and spreading his wings wide in respect.

"Do I look like I'm standing on Ceremony today?" The Lord asked, Her—His—_God's_ Voice sounding suspiciously less like the normal thunder clap or streak of a rainbow and more like a regular human woman. "Get up, Raphael," She said tenderly, smiling warmly at him, which was, in Raphael's opinion, a nice change from the Mona Lisa reminiscent smile she'd had earlier.

"No, Lord." Raphael stood and waited. The Archangel was less ceremonious or, to use a term he had once heard the Cherub—er, Principality—Aziraphale mutter beneath his breath, 'stuffy' than the likes of Gabriel, (2) but even so, Raphael knew better than to ask a direct question of the Lord. Even if—at the moment, _She_—was in one of Her Guises and was squelching Her toes in the sand.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" She asked, gesturing.

"Breathtaking," Raphael said, and meant it. "But deserts always make me sad."

The Lord shot Raphael a Look which said quite clearly Well-Go-On-Then-Already.

"Er. Lord. Might I…?"

"No, Raphael, most compassionate of all the Archangels and mighty Healer. You may not."

Raphael's wings clenched in tightly, but he did not speak. He automatically was able to feel the pain of any injured angel, and Aziraphale's was currently screaming at him. Screaming loudly and insistently and, actually, using British swear words. But 'No' from the Lord was 'no.' (3)

* * *

1. Another reference to the real _Good Omens_.

2. And for Aziraphale to accuse (rightly) someone of being stuffy was certainly saying something. Tweed and tartan are not generally the favorite clothes of a carefree Bohemian, after all.

3. Despite the discomfort he felt while an angel suffered, in general, Raphael would not have gone to ask the Lord if he could heal the injured angel—he would have waited to be told do so like a good Archangel. But the Metatron had sought out Raphael earlier and told him precisely to let that 'fool of a Principality suffer the Consequences.' Raphael, though he never would have admitted it, rather disliked the Metatron and his first inclination was to do the exact opposite of what he said. The Divine Healer wasn't an idiot, after all—he was one of few angels who never fooled himself that the Voice of God was His/Her actual _voice_.

* * *

**000000**

Aziraphale jerked, his back arching as he convulsed in pain, and then he let out a low moan that ended with a whimper. Immediately Crowley stopped calling to the poison, but Aziraphale's jaw was clenched in pain and he twisted away from Crowley in obvious agony. Apparently, when the demon had tried to expel the poison he'd inadvertently given it a burst of strength, his demonic Presence feeding it. The pain on the angel's white face was proof enough, along with the fact that the once merely red marks on him were now dark crimson lines against his pale, pale skin.

"Shit," Crowley muttered, clenching his fists tightly enough to whiten his knuckles. It was just fitting that when he was trying hard to do something Good, it would blow up in his face and he'd cause more damage. He was a _demon_, after all, he thought bitterly, it was what he was _good_ at. Destroying things, creating havoc, making innocent people—beings—that didn't deserve it suffer.

That's what he was meant to do. But not to Aziraphale. (1) Watching the angel quiver uncontrollably, the Serpent felt like he was back at the end of the Garden, watching a banished Eve and Adam cowering in the rain. But this time, the guilt he felt was worse—it was _personal_. And it hurt. Since when did demons feel deeply enough—other than anger or terror for one's self—to feel such pain?

And it wasn't close to being over for either of them because suddenly that one good eye—that beyond any shade of human blue, blue eye—was open, but the angel wasn't really aware, wasn't focused on anything, as he let out a battle cry and fought the sheets, trying to tear them off. Wonderful, Crowley thought, the angel's going to smite the linens.

Careful not to hurt, Crowley placed his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders and tried to stop the thrashing. He ended up with a face full of wing feathers and the sheets began to glow faintly with holy light. Crowley blinked. Aziraphale really WAS going to try and smite the linens. Hurriedly, the demon disappeared the sheets and Aziraphale quieted, but then he shot up again.

For a second Crowley thought Aziraphale was still fighting an invisible foe, but then the demon realized his movements were more like he was in the grips of a seizure. The erratic, jerky motions Aziraphale was making frankly unnerved the demon more than he had been for a long time—he was even more unsettled than he would have been if Ligur had come up to him while smiling _sincerely_. (2) Blessing under his breath, Crowley sat on the bed and took Aziraphale in his arms, trying to help still the angel's convulsions.

Though he'd rather mutilate himself or even watch Infomercials rather than admit it, Crowley was disturbed and distressed. Even though the demon had done it to help, he'd hurt Aziraphale. _Badly_. He was the cause of more of his suffering. And it didn't help that, really, he was the one responsible for it in the first place.

The angel's teeth chattered as he was in the throes of the poison, and Crowley maintained his grip. "Hold on, Aziraphale, ride it out, you'll pull through," Crowley shushed, holding on even as the angel's head banged into the underside of his jaw. Running out of comforting things to say, he resorted to his last attempt at comforting and held on to the angel tight as he repeated, "There, there" to him.

Holding onto the angel as he was, he couldn't pat him, but he continued his constant mumbling until finally his words dried up and he reverted to making soothing half-humming, half-hissing sounds. (3)

Eventually Aziraphale sagged backwards and calmed, the only movement he made an occasional, reflexive quiver. This did not relieve Crowley; the sudden stillness was not at all comforting because the Principality seemed so limp, so _lifeless_ in his arms.

"_Aziraphale_," Crowley said, his grip on the angel tightening. "Heal, damn it."

The angel didn't so much as twitch and Crowley softly set him back down on the bed, making sure a pillow was behind his head, before he materialized a chair next to the bed and slid down into it. Sure, as a demon he ought to have been rejoicing, but letting the only being he cared about more than himself fade away just because of otherworldly politics would have been, in Crowley's view, asinine. He would try and prevent that no matter what and he would also try blessedly hard to stop thinking about his reasons for doing so. Loyalty, friendship, trust, love; all those fluffy concepts made him uncomfortable.

Aziraphale shivered again, shivered hard, and Crowley, reasoning that the best way for healing to work was to have contact, took the angel's closest hand. The slightly plump, soft hand was flaccid, unresponsive even when the demon squeezed it.

Crowley tried to ignore what felt like a hellhound on steroids ripping around in his insides—was concern always this pleasant, he wondered—and he focused on sending healing power into Aziraphale. "Heal, bless it," Crowley muttered. "Heal."

* * *

1. Well, okay, perhaps he was _meant_ to do it to Aziraphale, but he never, ever would have, not like this. A cactus on his seat, the defacing of a paperback; little annoyances like those he would do to his counterpart, but nothing that would permanently damage the Principality. (Not counting, of course, permanently damaging the Principality's Dignity. That incident with the margaritas and karaoke bar and exotic dancers was a prime example and was something that Crowley would never, ever regret, not even the next day after he'd been blessed across the room by an infuriated angel.) In truth, Crowley would have rather hurt _himself_ than Aziraphale (still not counting Dignity) and that was an unsettling thing to realize.

2. Believe it or not, the image of Ligur smiling sincerely is the stuff of nightmares—really, really frightening nightmares that occasionally involved Hastur vacuuming. (Another image that is horrifying and yet somehow underappreciated as far as Terror-Inspiring goes.)

3. A feat only capable for a multitalented demon like Crowley. And yes, hissing _can_ be comforting. Or, at the least, hissing can be benign. It's easy to tell a conversational hiss from an 'Oh, Bollocks' scared, defensive hiss or an aggressive 'back away or I'll bite' hiss or a 'come hither' sexy hiss or a regular 'I'm just smellin' the air, mate' hiss and so on. At least, it's easy if you're familiar with snakes or, more importantly, Serpents. If you're not, then they all probably just sound like 'ssssss' or 'thhhssss' or 'hisssss.'

* * *


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: **Still don't own them. Feedback is much appreciated, thanks to everyone whose given some. Am in a hurry so that's all I'm saying. This chapter will probably please you guys, except, perhaps, where it leaves off. Enjoy!

PS) Thanks to Fido La Canadienne for beta-ing this! (I appreciate it a lot, my dear, and I used many of your suggestions and added in bits of my own, so it's not the same as when you last read it.)

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**Chapter Twelve**

Somewhere, in the deep, dark reaches of Hell where the screams of the damned rang out and the blood-red sulphur pools bubbled blithely, there was a stack of overdue paperwork sitting on a desk. (1) This was not an unusual occurrence—how could it be if one's employees are a bunch of Damned, self-serving, pyromaniacs? (2) Nevertheless, the Administration of Hell had noticed and sent out a memorandum. (3)

The memo regarding said paperwork was stamped (4)_ 'Urgent'_ and '_Respond_ _Immediately or Be Eradicated' _and yet still remained unanswered.

It should be noted that a gleaming, black granite nameplate, propping up the memo, was on the desk and had 'Duke Hastur' written upon it.

* * *

1. Actually, the paperwork was _long_ past being overdue, but Hell, being Hell and all, expected things to be late. Just not _Late_. And these particular documents were beyond _Late_, even.

2. Literally.

3. It should be noted that one Anthony J. Crowley—Serpent, Tempter, and Flash Bastard—was the first to suggest such office memos, both on Earth and in Hell.

4. Interestingly, all Hellish memorandums were supposed to be stamped with the blood of the once-pure, but—most likely to cut down on expenses—that practice had generally died out. This particular memo seemed to be stamped with what looked suspiciously like pinkish-red ink trying unsuccessfully to be blood-red ink.

* * *

**000000**

Crowley held Aziraphale's hand between both of his own, stubbornly sending him more healing power. If it didn't start working soon, he'd be reduced to attempting to _Threaten_ the poison out. Though the worst of the angel's cuts had mended, the bruises under his eyes had faded, and his nose had straightened itself, they did little to compensate. The angel's real problem remained. (1)

Crowley glared at one of the red lines—it might've looked harmless, but the demon knew it was the physical sign of the sword's poison that pierced Aziraphale's very essence. The red line glared back. Not to be outdone by the dramatic showdown of Crowley versus the poison, Aziraphale let out a long moan.

The demon rather felt like groaning himself. It was bad enough that being exposed to demonic Presences diminished the Principality's powers, but he'd been tortured and poisoned, too. Really, it was a testament to how strong—and obstinate—Aziraphale was that he'd held out this long. Hastur, a nasty piece of work, would've made sure to use the finest demonic blade designed to wipe out an angel's Presence shortly after one was stabbed. By all rights, and as a Principality—which, though not the lowest rank, certainly wasn't the highest—Aziraphale should've already been faded at this point, demonic help or not.

As a pair, Crowley and Aziraphale might have been as different as chalk and cheese, but they were the same, too, in a complicated sort of way. (2) And they balanced each other.

Not like yin and yang or light and dark or any of that soppy nonsense (though that could've been part of it). It was more like they'd been around each other so long that everything that divided them seemed less clear cut. Less significant, even. (3) It would seem strange, after all these years, not to Aziraphale around. Besides, the angel owed him dinner. The demon sighed.

How in Go-Sa—_how_ had he got himself into this bloody situation? _How_ could it be that all of his demonic defenses had been torn down by an entity that inhabited a physical body that looked like it went to book-club meetings for gay men?

Crowley, as a demon, certainly wasn't built for friendship or relationships of any kind. Yet this stupid angel had come along and didn't automatically smite him, was nice to him, treated him like an equal, talked to him even when he was _the_ Serpent in _the_ Garden, wore tweed and tartan unnecessarily, and spoke like a stereotypical English chap in some American b-movie from the 1950s, then somehow the next thing Crowley knew, the possibility of losing said angel was painful. Not just 'ouch, I've got a splinter' painful and not even 'oh bollocks, I think my legs've been severed by that rampaging elephant swinging the pickaxe with his trunk' painful, but the kind of pain that would damage the demon's very core, a hurt that could and would rip him into pieces and afterward set fire to, and then widdle on, his remains. All while laughing. (4)

"Heal," Crowley hissed.

Aziraphale's grip remained slackened and the demon focused again on his anger, his one solace. "Dammit, shit, bollocks, bless it," he chanted, trying to take solace in the rather human act of repeating a string of curses—or blessings.

Needless to say, it didn't make him feel better. He should've known better than to follow humanity's example. They were a rather masochistic species and the only one that would admit to falling in love. Famous poet Robert Browning once said, "Take away love and our earth is a tomb." But from a demon's point of view, the earth, no matter how enjoyable, was a tomb anyway, with or without the heartaches caused by love of any type. (5) After all, humans, along with the whole bloody earth itself, were mortal. The only immortal things on earth were, ironically, Crowley and Aziraphale, one of whom was currently fading away. (6)

Existence is a bitch. (And it slobbers and sheds a lot and is constantly having puppies.) (7)

Crowley fell silent, still clutching a pale hand between both of his and Willing as hard as he could. In case, as he had once heard on the radio, (on the same program that gave him the advice to talk to his plants, as a matter of fact) it was true that incapacitated or semi-comatose people can hear and understand what one is saying, he kept talking. "Hold on, Aziraphale, you poofy git. You're too bull-headed to give up, so _heal_."

Exhausted, Crowley finally sunk down, closing his eyes and resting his head on his clasped hands that held Aziraphale's own. What would it take to make the angel listen to him and mend? Then he thought of something and grimaced inwardly.

If he'd actually believe the radio program and thought the angel could actually hear him, he never would have said it. As it was, he did.

"Please." Crowley muttered.

A long pause. _Oh bugger it_, the Serpent thought, sitting up again but not releasing his grip on the Principality's hand.

"Aziraphale." He spoke in the angelic language, the first time he had in centuries. Crowley winced; the words hurt his mouth. "Be whole. Heal and be whole."

It really should have worked. (8) Unfortunately, real life is not always as obliging as movies. Even when real life included an angel and a demon residing on earth.

Sighing, Crowley slumped back down.

* * *

1. The angel's most serious problem, that is. Aziraphale would have been the first to admit he had other dilemmas, like how he wondered if his body was capable of having high cholesterol, his devotion (was it ill founded? or even—gulp—sinful?) to books and desserts and drinks, and the fact that his closest chum was a demon.

2. One might even say in an _Ineffable_ way. xD

3. Crowley lacking Aziraphale would be like Laurel without Hardy, Punch sans Judy, assault and no battery, Butch Cassidy without the Sundance Kid, Holmes missing Watson, aiding without abetting, Sonny and no—actually, scratch that last one.

4. It was _demonic_ pain, after all. It couldn't be expected to be the light and fluffy sort of pain where the sufferer was unconscious most of the time.

5. The only statement about love that had ever made any sense to Crowley—not that he listened to it, mind—was R.A. Dickson's advice to "love your enemies just in case your allies turn out to be a bunch of bastards." And as for friendship, he thought an Oscar Wilde quote he'd read in one of the angel's many books was particularly apt: "true friends stab one from the front." Demons aren't awfully positive fellows. Not even closet-optimist demons like Crowley.

6. And there's Death, of course. But Death is _Everywhere_ and not specifically in _one_ place on earth.

7. Inspired by "Not only is life a bitch, but it is always having puppies," stated by Adrienne Gusoff. A woman that Crowley probably would've gotten along with.

8. It was, after all, just the sort of moment that was perfect for a climatic turnaround. It was the type of scene where it was customary for the dying friend to wake up from the coma, for the man to walk back into the woman's life, for a burst of heavenly light to shine down on Aziraphale, but nothing happened. Aziraphale didn't move. A light didn't glow. Somewhere in the next building over, a woman (whose life had been about as far from a romantic comedy as one could get) yelled, "Get out of here! Who said I wanted you back!" Her ex had just burst into the apartment with a bouquet of roses, declaring he was sorry and that he would love her forever. The woman pulled out a can of pepper spray and he suddenly changed his mind.

* * *

**000000**

Movement. A sigh.

Crowley didn't recall going to sleep but knew he must have done since both his hands were numb from his head resting on them. He opened his eyes to find Aziraphale looking at him. Instantly he sat up, pulled his hands away from the angel's, and scooted backward.

"Crowley?" Both blue eyes were as clear as Crowley had seen them since Hastur's attack, though they were tired.

"You expected someone else?" The demon asked flippantly, his voice exuding indifference.

Aziraphale smiled. The Principality had come to recognize certain things about the Serpent after centuries of knowing him. For instance, Aziraphale thought he knew the _real_ reason that Crowley wore those sunglasses all the time; the demon would say something cruel or sarcastic or offhand, but the angel could, at this point, nearly always read his eyes and generally what they said wasn't cruel or sarcastic or offhand at all. Sometimes, they were even…gentle. In this instance, they were worried. Aziraphale, as always, debated on which to respond to—Crowley's mouth, or his eyes.

Finally he replied, "No." But it was a 'no' that also said 'I _knew_ you'd be here, you silly serpent, and you know why.'

Crowley pointedly ignored the message in Aziraphale's 'no,' but he found himself asking, albeit gruffly, "How you feeling?"

"Perfectly horrible." He said this in such a typical Aziraphale fashion that Crowley grinned.

The angel smiled back, but it faltered after a moment as he took stock of how he really felt. "This poison is such a… a _bother_ to fight," Aziraphale spoke in his usual polite, understated way.

Crowley gave the angel a once over. Apparently, the angel _was_ fighting the poison and he was fighting it hard. While Crowley had been asleep, the marks on Aziraphale had lightened. The demon figured that after his injuries were healed, the angel had found enough reserve strength to combat the poison. His divine glow was still not recovered, but it was a little brighter. "You seem better."

The angel nodded and tried to sit up, then a spasm of pain shot through him and he jerked. Unthinkingly, Crowley gripped Aziraphale's shoulders until he'd ridden it out.

"Thank you," the angel murmured.

Crowley pushed him back onto the pillows. "Stay down." He frowned down at the angel. "You shouldn't have done that. I meant you seemed improved, not cured. All you're going to do is lie there and rest until I say otherwise, get it?"

The yellow snake eyes were narrowed and Aziraphale suppressed his smile and murmured, "Yes." Then he glanced around at Crowley's bedroom. First and foremost, the angel noticed that the mattress' top sheet was rumpled and had spots of blood on it and there were feathers all over. "Oh dear. I seem to have made a mess of your linens. Terribly sorry."

Crowley shook his head. "At least you didn't smite them."

"Pardon?"

"Never mind."

Silence. Then, "Thank you, my dear." Aziraphale reached over to pat Crowley's arm. "I surely am in your debt."

"You sure are," Crowley agreed, deadpan. "I'd better get an expensive five course meal at a five star restaurant and at _least_ five un-thwarted temptations—all at your expense, of course."

Aziraphale's face, which had held a mild look of pain, lightened as he smiled, and Crowley was extremely (unnecessarily, in his opinion) glad to see it. (1) The angel was recovering. On his own. (2)

"Crowley." Aziraphale was getting tired. It seemed to be a struggle for the angel to keep his eyes open, but at least it was from exhaustion and not illness for once.

"Yeah?" He asked it warily because the angel was giving him that blessed look again, with the serious blue eyes and sincere expression.

"I hope you know," he stopped, stifling a yawn. "How much I appreciate…" Crowley shifted in his chair and reflexively miracled his sunglasses—once again whole—back over his eyes as the angel again paused.

Aziraphale debated on what to say. 'That you're here, that you helped me, that you care, too?' "Everything."

"Yeah, well, there's no need to go on about it. I'm just paying you back for keeping mum around Hastur, you know. It's not—" Crowley broke off as he realized the angel had fallen asleep.

Then, in a whisper, he said, "You'll be fine, angel, fine."

Realizing he sounded actually happy about that fact and that he was smiling like a fool, Crowley sighed and sank back into the chair. Aziraphale had won the battle, and was on his way to recovery, but Crowley was going to keep vigil nonetheless. No one else would. And he really _was_ just paying Aziraphale back for not ratting him out to Hastur (3), though in Crowley's estimation, by the time the Principality was well he would have paid back that debt and then some.

* * *

1. A small fraction of Crowley, the part known as his Voice of Extreme Demonic Dismay, wanted to gag. This voice, E.D.D. for short, always grumbled whenever the demon was around Aziraphale. But E.D.D was secretly friends with that poofy Little Voice of Hope, so things balanced out in the end.

2. Well, Crowley might have jumpstarted the healing, but he wasn't certain of that. Naturally, he'd take credit for it later, anyway. (Demons are nothing if not opportunistic.)

3. Riiiiiiight.

* * *

**000000**

_Elsewhere_

_((In fact, the same Elsewhere that was mentioned in the Last Chapter)) _

The archangel Raphael was organizing his heavenly medical cabinet. Again. (1) He was simultaneously partaking of divine fodder. (2)

The Divine Healer had been rebutted, albeit gently, and dismissed. No Healing for Aziraphale, by Decree. Raphael was just going to have to calmly ignore the Principality's pain. (3) He was still puzzling over the Lord's last comment, which had been, "When the time comes, you'll know what to do." What time? Obviously God didn't mean he should heal Aziraphale, as that had been strictly forbidden. Why did the ineffable Plan have to be, well, so ineffable?

Upset and maybe even a little angry, the archangel had walked calmly to his quarters (4) and started cleaning his cabinet. It was at the point when he closed his cabinet that he saw the glowing parchment. A Heavenly Summons.

Raphael picked it up and stared. It was from the Metatron. The note was marked Re: One Principality, Aziraphale.

* * *

1. Not that the Divine Healer actually _needed_ a supply cabinet, seeing as he did his healing primarily with a touch or gesture, but Raphael liked the idea of having a medical-supplies cabinet and so he had one.

2. In other words, he was engaged in the age old practice of getting over one's sorrows by consuming great quantities of sweets. (Manna is said to, after all, taste like honey-wafers.)

3. Which, oddly, had begun to recede and was accompanied by a constant, soothing presence that wasn't _the_ Presence. The Healer wondered about this. It was obvious that Aziraphale was drawing comfort and even some help in healing from somewhere, but it wasn't an angel doing it—Raphael would've known. Perhaps the Principality had a priest or a preacher or a rabbi by his side? Or some other Blessed human?

(Little did _he_ know.)

4. It wasn't as if Raphael was going to _storm_ to his room. Mikael, commander of the Lord's army, Barakiel, lightening of God, and Chasan, angel of the air, were the only ones that 'stormed' anywhere, even when angry. Chasan and Barakiel had a good reason to be prone to storming, and Mikael—well, he was Mikael, and that was reason enough.

* * *


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: **Here's the latest update! I hope you guys like it. And I hope you like Raphael, too. (He has an insecurity complex, you know) xD

Thank you to lj users, goneshootin, toddfan, and bakaknight for beta-ing this for me!

Azi and Crowley still do not belong to me. They belong to Pratchett and Gaiman.

* * *

**000000**

Chapter Thirteen

Anthony J. Crowley was trying to doze in the armchair he'd miracled up next to the bed, but he couldn't manage to drift off. Aziraphale, on the other hand, who supposedly never slept, was curled up on his side slumbering deeply with his wings wrapped around himself. The room was silent except for the occasional snuffly-sleepy noise from the angel.

Instead of falling asleep himself, Crowley ended up studying the sleeping Principality. His red streaks had continued to fade, though Crowley knew it would take awhile for Aziraphale to fully recover. His face was still drawn, his coloring paler than usual, but it was apparent he was improving. Good. The sooner Aziraphale was well again the better—Crowley wanted his apartment back to himself, after all. (1)

Really, the situation was ridiculous. The Arrangement was one thing, but having a weakened angel entirely at one's mercy was enough to make any demon antsy. Aziraphale shouldn't trust him like that! For that matter, Crowley _ought_ to be betraying that trust. Any minute now…

Crowley sighed. He might as well admit, at least to himself, that he wasn't going to betray the stupid angel's stupid trust. Somehow, he just couldn't. Really, over the millennia, the both of them could've damaged each other in so many different ways, but by and large they hadn't. Some things other than the Plan are ineffable, after all. (2)

The demon was torn from his musings when a sound came from the living room. Crowley stood quietly, glanced at Aziraphale, who hadn't stirred, and then extended his claws. He was skulking down the hall like a professional (skulking required more finesse than lurking, but it wasn't as fearsome) before he realized what he was doing. He really needed to work on that whole acting-reflexively thing. Especially since most of his reflexive actions seemed to involve the angel.

The Serpent slunk the rest of the way down the hall and sprang into the living room, but there was no one there. And then he noticed his flat screen television was on, showing static.

CROWLEY?

The demon started. Any momentary relief he might have felt that there wasn't a physical presence in his apartment was washed away by his normal paranoia. Why was Hell calling him? Hell hadn't contacted him since the Armageddon-That-Wasn't.

"Er, hi. It's been a while." Crowley thought quickly. He didn't need official involvement right now, not with a still-recovering Aziraphale in his apartment, but he didn't want to get himself in more trouble than he already was either.

CROWLEY. It definitely wasn't Dagon or any of the usual contacts, but the voice did sound somewhat familiar. HAS ANYTHING UNUSUAL HAPPENED LATELY?

"Unusual?" Crowley asked, his voice deceptively calm. They know. They know about Hastur. But what _else_ do they know? He hoped they knew nothing about Aziraphale.

WE BELIEVE THERE IS AN UNAUTHORIZED DEMONIC PRESENCE ON EARTH. (3) DUKE HASTUR.

"Really?" Given that demons shouldn't be able to sound anywhere near innocent, Crowley was doing a good job of radiating blamelessness with his tone. Had he been any more blatant about it, he'd have been whistling a tune with his hands in his pockets in attempted inconspicuousness. Crowley knew exactly how the unauthorized demon had been taken care of and he feared that _Hell_ knew how the unauthorized demon had been taken care of, but there was an unauthorized _angel_ in his bedroom that was also vying for equal-reason-to-panic rights. Things could get bad so very quickly. They generally did, in Crowley's experience.

YES. A pause. CROWLEY, DO YOU KNOW WHO THIS IS?

"Hell."

I MEAN SPECIFICALLY.

"Ah." The voice still seemed slightly familiar, but Crowley hated guessing games unless he was the one making someone else play them. "No."

THAMUZ. I'M WORKING FOR THE COLLECTION AGENCY NOW. (4) WE REALIZED DUKE HASTUR WAS MISSING WHEN HE DIDN'T REPLY TO OUR MEMOS.

Thamuz. Crowley remembered him as a tetchy and low-ranked prat that had briefly been given possession rights and had originally been called something inane like 'Ted.' (5) He'd tried to get credit for the Spanish Inquisition (a purely human-made fiasco) after he'd possessed some cardinal or another, though Crowley had received the credit instead. As far as Crowley recalled, Thamuz' main demonic ability was to make humankind torture each other (which they did on their own). Other than that, he could change into his avatar, (he only had one) which was an ugly scorpion-crab looking thing.

"Long time no hear. How's the old lady?" The last that Crowley had heard, the lower ranking demon had taken up with a succubus.

THE SAME. ALL SHE THINKS ABOUT IS SPAWNING AND ALL SHE TALKS ABOUT IS HOW I SHOULD HAVE BEEN PROMOTED FOR MY WORK IN SPAIN.

"You did some g—bad work there," Crowley replied noncommittally, knowing Thamuz was trying to start a fight.

HM. There was a moment of silence in which Crowley gazed warily at the bedroom door hoping a certain angel was still asleep. I MAY CONTACT YOU LATER, CROWLEY, AS I CONTINUE MY INVESTIGATION. UNTIL THEN, BE WARY. I WOULD HATE FOR ANYONE ELSE TO SHED YOUR SKIN BEFORE ME. A beat. MERELY JOKING, OF COURSE.

"Ha ha."

The screen went black and all traces of demonic connection vanished. Crowley gave a relieved sigh, looked down, noticed he still had his claws out, and sheathed them. He'd just dodged a bullet. He hoped he could keep dodging it. (6)

Turning, Crowley went back to his bedroom. He walked in to find Aziraphale, still mostly asleep, trying to push himself into a sitting position.

"What're you doing?" Crowley snapped, hurrying over to shove him back down.

"…you were gone…" Aziraphale mumbled.

"What, am I supposed to stay with you all the time? I'm not your nursemaid, angel."

Aziraphale colored a little, looked hurt, and then indignant all in the matter of a few seconds. "I…thought something might've happened."

Crowley gave a put-upon sigh. "Go back to sleep and don't worry. I'm not going anywhere."

The smile he received in reply from the drowsy Principality was so radiant that Crowley had to shove down the return smile that threatened to surface. The demon hurriedly added, "I have to keep an eye on you when you're in my territory, after all."

And Aziraphale, feeling rather sensitive because he was still healing and sore, said stiffly, "I didn't mean to intrude." The effect of his tone was partially ruined by a yawn. "I…think I can manage…t' make it back to the shop."

"You're not going anywhere. Didn't you _hear_ me? You're staying put until I say otherwise. Now shut up and go back to sleep, Aziraphale," he said, in a voice less gruff than he meant it to be. "You need the rest."

Aziraphale stared at Crowley and the demon shifted. Finally, no doubt after translating what Crowley had really meant beneath his tone and that glare, Aziraphale smiled. "Crowley—" he started.

"Shut up, angel."

Aziraphale kept smiling, but he held his tongue. Crowley would know what he'd meant to say, anyway, and the angel didn't want to push his luck with the demon, who tended to become defensively vicious after he acted his nicest.

"'Night, m'dear." Aziraphale said after a moment, already nearly asleep again. (Humans aren't the only species for whom sleep is healing, and anyway, Aziraphale was currently inhabiting a human body.)

Crowley watched as the angel fell asleep. Funny, but it really was true nearly all humans looked more innocent when they slept. (7) In Aziraphale's case, Crowley thought he looked more angelic, like more of his inherent goodness exposed itself. Honestly, it made Crowley want to do something at least slightly mean, if not actually evil, to him. Like draw on his face with a magic marker or put whipped cream in his hands and tickle his nose so he'd itch it and get the stuff all over his face or _something_. He suppressed the urge and decided to try and go to sleep himself.

"Night," Crowley whispered, burrowing into his chair.

* * *

1. Such disclaimers/add-ons are a necessity when one is a demon like Crowley. He couldn't maintain any demonic credibility without them.

For instance, he told himself he rescued Fluffy the dewy-eyed kitten from a tree earlier in the week merely because the wide-eyed little girl who owned her had a mother with serious allergies. (Never mind the fact that the mother was getting allergy shots.)

2. Love, for instance, is ineffable. No matter whether it's romantic love or friend love or familial love or what started out as a business deal between an angel and a demon and metamorphosed into something surpassing the other three, when you love someone you're giving them the power to destroy you. But you love them, and so you trust them not to. (And, generally, they don't. If they love you back, that is, and they're not an overly-cruel sadist.)

3. The ironic thing was that the Contacting itself was unauthorized. After the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't, everyone had decided Crowley was to be Officially Ignored. A certain young man named Adam might have had something to do with this.

4. Hell's collection department wasn't like the ones on earth. As usual, Hell took an idea that had been pinched from Earth far too literally. Hell's collection agency was literally in charge of collecting _everything_. Including missing paperwork or AWOL Dukes.

While Thamuz referred to Hell's CA as 'us,' in reality, he was merely a clerk at the agency. He'd been assigned to round up Duke Hastur (if possible) and his overdue paperwork mostly because no one else wanted to do it.

5. Which was, other than his avatar, probably one reason he was so irritable. (Authoress resists the urge to call him 'crabby.') It's hard to inspire terror if you're named Ted—it just doesn't have the right sound. (Ted the Terrible sounds like a children's book about a toddler going through his terrible twos—ignore the excessive alliteration—and Ted the Torturer sounds like the chat room name of a balding, middle-aged, uncreative guy interested in dog collars and padded handcuffs.)

It should be noted that A. J. Crowley changed _his_ name long before Ted/Thamuz did.

6. Not that he was particularly worried about Thamuz himself, more like who Thamuz would tell if he found out anything. The Serpent could handle the lower ranked demon easily, but he'd really rather prefer not to attract any more unwanted attention.

7. Sadly, this is less true if one sleeps with one's mouth open and drools—in that instance one generally looks catatonic.

* * *

**000000**

It had been a long time since the Divine Healer had physically been on Earth. (1) Despite the fact that Raphael had somewhat missed the humans (2), he was not pleased to be there at the moment. He wished he'd never gotten the Summons. The body of the memo had merely said: 'See Me.' And so Raphael had gone to see the Voice, received his Orders, and then left to carry them out.

Well, actually, the Healer had attempted to rationally discuss things with the Voice (3) in an effort to change what he had Decreed, but that had only resulted in the Voice threatening to Fell Raphael if he didn't do as he was Told. Fell _him_. The Divine Healer, Regent of the Sun,_ et al_. (4)

So Raphael had ended up on Earth, hiding his presence like only a higher ranked occult/ethereal being can while hovering outside of a ritzy apartment complex. Aziraphale was there, he could feel his pain (it had lessened) as well as his Presence (which was a rather unique, earthy one). The strange thing, what had made the Archangel pause outside, was that there was also a demonic Presence close to Aziraphale's. It wasn't the usual smelling-like-sulphur and feeling-like-one-is-being-burnt type of demonic Presence, though. Raphael sensed this demon as a kind of metaphysical roguish smirk and the slippery feeling of snakeskin.

* * *

1. Too long, in his opinion, but many other ethereal entities felt that he had interfered too much when he was there. And he had, probably, but it wasn't really his fault. He had been Created to _heal_, in every meaning of the word. Raphael could've given up all mortal sustenance with ease (he had a weakness for sweets, another bond he unknowingly shared with Aziraphale) but he couldn't reduce his healings. But he'd defied Azrael one too many times and so his earthly visitations had been limited.

2. Like one would miss a somewhat smelly puppy that one had hand-reared and bottle-fed that, in return, widdled all over and bit a lot, but that one still couldn't remain angry with because, really, he didn't know any better.

(One such instance was when a bunch of so called devout followers had acted like they were going to burn him at the stake after he'd healed a dying child. Raphael hadn't meant for anyone to see but he had been so busy healing the cholera-infected town that he didn't realize he was being observed. Instead of the townsfolk thinking he was an angel or at least a blessed human, they assumed he had made a pact with a devil or _was_ the Devil. Raphael was an Archangel and he was patient and forgiving. But when they'd met his gentle responses to their accusations with "even the Adversary doth transform himself into a messenger of light" and then had burnt his staff and his small satchel, which had been filled with sweets to take back to Heaven, Raphael had not been pleased. In fact, he'd Manifested in all his Glory out of sheer annoyance. The upside was that several nonbelievers converted, although several believers ran and hid in their cellars.)

3. Without thinking, Raphael had mentioned, in a respectful tone, that he was the Divine Healer, the one who's very Name meant God Has Healed, and as such was the last entity that should be asked to do such a thing.

Raphael did not argue. Not as such. He was a peaceful angel, more so than a lot of them actually were. He might have debated, on the occasion, if the matter was extremely serious, but he did not _argue_. This ensured that either (a) he won because of the validity of his position or because his opponent was so exhausted from all of his rebuttals, or (b) he had to concede and give up the argument or resort to other tactics because really, debating calmly only does so much when the other party is bellowing, raising an occult weapon, or foaming at the mouth.

4. If he was Felled, who exactly would be recommending that Gabriel take a holiday to lower his stress? Who would change the bandages of and stick the wings back on those poor heavenly beings unfortunate enough to be Mikael's direct subordinates? Who would continue to, for lack of a better phrase, Kiss It and Make It Better?

Gabriel wouldn't replace him, that was for sure, he wouldn't want to deal with all that 'unpleasantness' and Uriel probably couldn't focus on one person/entity long enough to heal. Mikael—well, that was a ridiculous notion. With the thought of leaving Healing up to someone else, Raphael had forced himself to stop debating with the Metatron, even if he thought the notion of him being Felled was ludicrous.

* * *

**000000**

Suddenly Crowley stood up, his wings and claws out, his fangs bared. The flat had filled with another angelic Presence. This one was not nearly as comforting—er, familiar—as Aziraphale's and it was stronger, too. It felt like an Archangel. Crowley didn't want to fight an Archangel because one of them could smite a demon like him easily. _Accidentally_ even. (1) But the alternative to fighting the Archangel was running and it was _his_ apartment and besides, he couldn't just leave Aziraphale laying there helpless in his bed, could he? (2) Though, what would happen if the angel was there to heal Aziraphale? Wouldn't his presence interfere? Surely the Archangel had already sensed him, and things could get ugly for Aziraphale quickly when he or she discovered that he was unharmed even though a demon had just been nearby. Questions would be asked.

Better Crowley stayed put. At least they could face things together. Oh, he really needed to stop doing that—thinking of him and the angel as a pair. It was dangerous. Especially when another angel was around and headed in their direction. Despite Crowley's significant discomfort at the unfamiliar angelic Presence and everything in his demonic instincts, he held back his attack. What if the Archangel really _had_ been sent to help Aziraphale? Maybe it was that one, what's-his-name, with the red hair and the healing and the cleanliness and the long-standing rivalry with Pestilence? Something with an 'el' at the end—though that fit a lot of angels—Raphael, that was it.

It was then that none other than said Raphael, the Divine Healer, strode into the bedroom. His golden-red hair was glowing with light and he looked as put-together as Crowley remembered—his wings were probably the most well groomed out of all the angels—and he held a… Crowley blinked. The Divine Healer held a staff topped by a caduceus in one hand and what looked like a fiery dagger in the other. (In actuality, it was a flaming scalpel.)

Raphael, who certainly never breathed, sighed heavily. "As if things aren't complicated enough," he muttered, vanishing the staff (it always was automatically waiting for him when he went to Earth) and fixing his green eyes on Crowley. "Be gone, demon, if you please," Raphael said, matter-of-factly. He sounded very much like a doctor telling an aggravating patient's family to 'please leave the room.'

It took a small effort of Will for Crowley not to 'Be gone,' but he resisted the order because Raphael, for some reason, wasn't fully utilizing his own Will.

Narrowing his eyes beneath his shades, Crowley glanced from Raphael to his fiery scalpel, to the way the Healer was focused on Aziraphale. Something clicked, and then the demon was between the two divine entities. If the righteous feather-duster even _looked_ at Aziraphale wrong, Crowley was going to tear his wings off. "No clossser."

Raphael cocked his head at the demon, who was suddenly a conglomeration of wings and claws and teeth and hissing rage, and raised an eyebrow.

"You're going to try and hinder me?" A lot of people/beings (and everyone in action films and martial arts movies), would have said that question derisively. The Archangel, on the other hand, was honestly taken aback and asked the question sincerely.

Crowley didn't reply, but neither did he move.

Stifling a sigh, the Healer flared up the power of his Presence and the demon staggered back, hitting the wall. Raphael moved toward the bed, but before he progressed very far, the Serpent was in the way with his yellow-gold eyes glowing quite obviously even under the sunglasses, his wings outstretched in an obvious threat, and his fangs elongated. He was again determinedly between him and the Principality_._ Strangely, Raphael thought, the demon's stance seemed almost…defensive. "Are you— Do you mean to…fight me for him?"

"Yes." It was little more than a hiss.

"You realize," Raphael said calmly. "That I could destroy you?"

"Try it."

"Look." Raphael sounded pained. (3) "I've not been ordered to smite you. As Healer, I'd rather not, really."

Crowley sneered. And then, "You haven't been ordered to smite me, but you have been ordered to end Aziraphale's existence, haven't you?"

Raphael winced and nodded. (Angels, as a rule, do not lie—though some follow the rule better than others.) It still seemed surreal to the Healer. _Mikael_ smote; he was good at it. Raphael, on the other hand, was not the smiting/destroying type. He was much more the kind to give an Extremely Chiding Upbraiding. (4) But the Voice had told him to take his weapon and go to Aziraphale and 'grant him mercy.' At first, the Archangel had thought the Metatron wanted him to _heal_ the Principality, but the Voice had explained he wanted him 'put out of his misery.' Raphael, eager to clear things up, had made the mistake of telling the Metatron it wouldn't be necessary to 'end Aziraphale's suffering' because the Principality had already begun to recover. (5) The Voice had not been impressed and had not changed the orders.

"Why?" Crowley was ready to strike at any moment, but he figured if he kept the Archangel talking…what? He could talk him out of it?

Raphael blinked. "I was Ordered, of course."

"But why?"

"Eh." Raphael looked uneasy. Personally, he figured the Voice was still irked with Aziraphale about the whole Armageddon debacle and had seen his perfect chance to get rev—to duly punish the Principality. After all, if anyone debated the Voice's actions, he could say he just didn't want Aziraphale to suffer. But Raphael shouldn't actually say that out loud. At least, Himself—Herself—would Know the truth. But would She do anything about it? _"When the time comes, you'll know what to do," _God had said. That wasn't exactly forthcoming.(7)

"I didn't ask," the Healer finally replied. It was true enough.

Crowley's rage built. He hadn't saved his angel just to watch him be destroyed because some wanker of an Archangel—that hadn't even asked why Aziraphale was condemned—had orders to end his existence. He'd fought Hastur for Aziraphale, he'd got blood and feathers in the Bentley (vanished away of course, but it was the thought that mattered) for Aziraphale, he'd even healed Aziraphale and, worse, tried to _comfort_ Aziraphale; there was no way the demon was going to waste all that effort. The Principality had just started to recover, bless it. Crowley was not going to lose him.

"You're not going to _touch_ him," Crowley said, going still and then, when Raphael moved, swiping his claws forward to warningly slash the Archangel's arm.

The Divine Healer frowned and looked at the gouges, which healed. "Why would you endanger your own existence? I told you that if you leave, I won't harm you." The Serpent couldn't know he had no plans to smite him either way. "Do you just want to claim the, er, 'kill' for yourself?"

And then Raphael, stronger entity or not, was slammed against the wall by an infuriated demon. "He's not getting killed!"

"You really _are_ protecting him," Raphael said softly. "Not staking a claim."

"Geniusss," Crowley snapped.

"Crowley," another voice piped up.

All eyes turned to the Principality, who had shoved himself out of bed during Raphael and Crowley's exchange and was slumped against the wall looking rather like he wasn't going to remain upright.

"This isn't your battle, my dear." Aziraphale paused to take in an unnecessary, labored breath. "Perhaps you _ought_ to leave." The last part was said gently and then he looked at the Archangel and bobbed his head in acknowledgement. "Raphael."

"I'm not leaving." Crowley, still watching Raphael, went to Aziraphale, slung an arm around him, and guided him back to the bed. Aziraphale let him, but he sat down on the side and crossed his arms, meaning 'this is as far down as I go.' Crowley glared at him, obviously saying, 'Stay put, then.' Aziraphale's expression promised nothing and the demon moved slightly in front of the angel.

Raphael watched, his brows furrowed, as the two communicated wordlessly. Two and two was four. The Divine Healer kept a clean Kitchen. Aziraphale and the Serpent—Crowley—had an established relationship. Apparently, all of those were obvious truths and yet that last hadn't been obvious to Raphael until just then. He should have known, though—hadn't Aziraphale stood up against the Metatron and Beelzebub with the Serpent by his side? Their friendship was another black mark against Aziraphale in the Metatron's book, surely. But it wasn't in Raphael's, not necessarily. (8)

"Crowley—" The Principality began, stubbornness in his voice.

"I said I'm not leaving!" The demon thundered. And then, after a moment of silence, Crowley added, in a smaller voice, "It's _my_ apartment, anyway."

* * *

1. For instance, if someone in the room with Crowley and an Archangel had sneezed and the Archangel said 'bless you,' it would probably discorporate him. (That was an exaggeration.)

2. The Voice of Extremely Demonic Dismay, E.D.D. thought that yes, he really _could_, but the Little Spark of Goodness glared at E.D.D and E.D.D. sighed and prepared for the inevitable unpleasant end.

3. He was upset and he was confused. There weren't any blessed or spiritual humans around and moreover, Aziraphale was in _the_ Serpent's lair—so how had the Principality started to heal? What had helped him? Surely not the demon—it didn't make sense.

4. This was not to say that Raphael had never dealt severely with demons—he had, but always at the Metatron's say so. And unlike some other angels—most other angels, actually—he never enjoyed it.

5. He'd been eager to rescind the order not just because he hated the thought of destroying any life/existence, but also because, though Raphael didn't know him well, he'd always thought Aziraphale was an angel one could talk to. (6) After all, Raphael had interacted with humans and Aziraphale had been stationed among them, and so the Healer felt a sort of kinship with the Principality. (The Healer was also sympathetic toward him after the incident with the sword and felt that demoting him merely because of that was rather unnecessary.)

6. Aziraphale felt the same way about Raphael. While the Principality wasn't close with any of the angels in Heaven anymore, Raphael was one of few he would have chosen to have a casual conversation with if he'd been told to pick. (Aziraphale _loved_ all angels, but that didn't mean he'd invite the majority of them to a casual tea. Actually, Crowley was the only being he _ever_ invited for tea.) The Healer had spent more time on earth than most—especially in Pestilence's heyday—and he was more approachable than others. He also didn't treat Aziraphale like a failure or like he was tainted by his time on earth. And he'd never once mentioned the incident with his sword.

7. Not that Herself ever was forthcoming. But what _did_ the statement mean? Did it mean that God _approved_ of the Metatron ordering the Healer to put a fellow angel into nonexistence? Though Raphael was usually not the one to carry out divine retribution, he had been force—decreed to do so in the past. (Demons, both times, but really, he still just couldn't summon the divine rage Mikael was so good at and he'd felt guilty after both experiences. At least he hadn't been forced to actually kill/destroy either of them—he'd banished and buried, but not smote. It was terribly horrid that his first experience in that matter was going to be with an angel for—for Surgeon's sakes.)

8. It wasn't so surprising that he was sympathetic to the two being friends even if the one was a demon. Raphael had a hard time hating any being and he was known as a 'soft touch.' The Healer had even been a bit sympathetic toward Asmodeus, (one of the demons he'd banished) even though the demon was, basically, a serial killer. See, Asmodeus loved a woman named Sarah. The problem was that Asmodeus acted on his love for her by slaying each man she married on their wedding night before the marriage was consummated. (Ah, good old-fashioned Jealousy, demon-style.) Eventually a young man named Tobias, who was blessed, decided to marry her, and Raphael was ordered to put an end to Asmodeus' unusual expressions of love. The Healer had told Tobias how to expel the demon and then Raphael himself had banished Asmodeus to make certain he'd never return. He didn't smite the demon, though he knew it would have been permissible, because he felt pity for him. After all, Asmodeus really _had_ loved Sarah (anyone that said he was merely acting out of Lust had never seen him look at her with what approached deference). The demon just should have used a different method of demonstrating his affection other than killing every man about to touch her. Personally, Raphael thought flowers would have been nice.

* * *


	14. Chapter 14

**000000**

Chapter Fourteen

Raphael shifted. He didn't want to interrupt the 'moment' but as he desired to get the entire unpleasant business over with he cleared his throat. "Ahem."

There was a pause. The demon glared at him through dark glasses (the Healer couldn't see the glare, but he felt it) and Aziraphale looked mildly chagrined.

"Pardon the interruption," Raphael began, "but…" He trailed off, looking unhappy.

Aziraphale noticed his unease and (rather stupidly, in Crowley's opinion) took pity on him. "Yes?"

Raphael sighed and decided to try the more formal approach. (1) "Principality Aziraphale, former Guardian of the Eastern Gate and Divine Terrestrial Agent, I have been Sent here to, to, ah."

"Carry out Divine Judgment?" Aziraphale guessed.

"Well," Raphael said, in a low tone. "Actually, he referred to it as 'granting you mercy—'" There was a loud snort from the Serpent. "But you've got the general idea."

The Principality noticed that 'he' hadn't had a capital. "The Metatron?"

"Precisely." If Archangels ever wiggled in discomfort, Raphael would have been doing so, but they didn't, so instead he was gripping his scalpel like it was his only tie to Heaven. (2)

"Mercy, eh?" Aziraphale said, seeming rather calm, chipper even. "Didn't think he cared."

The Divine Healer barely managed to stifle a surprised laugh. "I don't think he's forgotten the Armageddon fiasco. Aziraphale…I really am terribly sorry about this."

"Sorry? You're _ssorry_?" Crowley hissed.

The Divine Healer fixed his gaze on his flaming scalpel and spake the Name of the weapon, "Skalmē," whereupon it tripled in size and developed a hilt, though it was still distinctively scalpel-like.

"Thracian?" Aziraphale asked, noting the language he'd used.

"Forget the language; you named your sword after itself?" Crowley snorted, referring to the meaning of Skalmē, which literally meant 'sword.'

"It has the right sound," Raphael replied testily, "and I _liked_ Macedonia." (3) He gripped the hilt tightly and pointed it at the pair. "I suppose we'd best get on with it. Er, Crowley, was it? The offer still stands. No harm will befall you if you don't interfere."

The demon muttered something that sounded like, "You can shove your halo up your Holy arse."

"Go on and summon your weapons, then," Raphael said. Aziraphale coughed. "Ah. So sorry, Aziraphale, I didn't mean to—"

"Quite all right; I'll manage without."

"Stop being so da—blessed polite, will you? He's here to try and _kill_ you."

"Angels don't die, Crowley."

"End your existence, then."

"That's no reason to be unpleasant."

Crowley just stared at him.

Raphael watched them both. Their exchanges were quite endearing, really.

"Raphael. I _would_ appreciate it if you'd leave Crowley out of this." Aziraphale said, standing up again.

"Certainly," Raphael replied.

"Aziraphale," Crowley growled. "I am not going to stand by and let him discor-_destroy_ you!" Aziraphale looked at the Serpent with his eyes soft and shining with warm angelic affection. "You owe me dinner," the demon added lamely.

"Dear boy," Aziraphale said, sounding as though he wanted to say more. He put his hand on Crowley's shoulder and squeezed it.

And then Crowley shoved his hand off and glared. "You tried to put me to sleep!"

"Bother. I must be more out of sorts than I thought." Aziraphale rubbed his temples, wavering a little on his feet. "That should have worked."

"_Aziraphale_."

Raphael inadvertently cringed at the amount of anger in the demon's voice and for a moment he thought that his job was going to be done for him.

"I don't want you involved, Crowley," Aziraphale said sincerely. "There is absolutely no need for both of us—that is—"

"Stop with the martyr crap. What've I got to lose, anyway?" Crowley asked flippantly.

"Your existence, Crowley. _You_ won't lose anything if mine is lost, so why chance it?" Aziraphale replied.

Crowley muttered something.

"Pardon?"

"I _said_, I'd lose you." A pause and then Crowley hastily amended, "That is, I'd lose the Arrangement. And a replacement Agent would be sent. You think I want to deal with another angel?"

"Don't mind me, boys. I'll wait for you to finish, shall I?" Raphael asked dryly. Neither angel nor demon noticed. The Divine Healer put his scalpel-sword down and leaned up against it.

"If you aren't, erm, permanently Ended, Crowley, how will you explain being discorporated by an Archangel while protecting a Principality? They'll investigate, you know."

"That Archangel is invading my territory—"

"I do apologize," Raphael put in, knowing full well that he was still being ignored.

"Your point, my dear?"

"That's reason enough for a demon to attack."

The Healer realized Aziraphale was worried not only that Raphael would smite Crowley but that, even if the demon survived, he would get in trouble with his superiors for attempting to protect him. After all, some beings—the Metatron inadvertently being one of them—would think the two were committing treason. This was just one fine mess the Healer had gotten himself into. It was obvious he was going to have to deal with the demon as well—Aziraphale and Crowley were, apparently, even if they didn't necessarily admit it outright, a pair. A package deal.

The two of them were still arguing when out of nowhere, Raphael sneezed. That was odd. He never sneezed. The only allergy he had—on Earth, of course, since the idea of having allergies in Heaven was ridiculous (4)—was to hellfire. Aziraphale and Crowley fell silent, exchanging a look as they sensed something, too. Abruptly, the floor of the flat burst into flames, there was a strong stench of sulphur, and then, after the hellfire disappeared, the Archangel Raphael realized he was going to have to deal with _two_ demons.

* * *

1. He wondered why he hadn't sighed so much before. It was becoming a habit. He was going to be teased by the other Archangels, he just knew it. They'd already found his stash of chocolate back in what the humans called the Middle Age. Mikael still made fun of him.

2. Technically, it was. After all, the Metatron had basically told him to knock off Aziraphale or else.

3. Raphael had never claimed to be especially creative with language.

4. The idea of an angel having allergies on Earth was ridiculous, too, but Raphael had occasionally found himself, while on Earth, allowing his human form to indulge in human weaknesses. He wouldn't very well be a good Healer if he didn't experience some such things, after all. (That was also the reason he never blocked any pain he felt, though that was saying something since he felt it all. He did, however, allow himself to indulge in gratuitous eating and other grief blocking mechanisms on the occasion.) The Divine Healer had limits, though; he had yet to allow himself neuroses (or at least, not as many as some of the other Archangels had, despite the fact that they didn't have his excuse) or to transform into a broken inanimate object or wounded piece of vegetation. He was, after all, Healer in every sense of the word and could have been called Divine Fixer of All Things that Aren't Right. He didn't just 'heal' injured people or beings, after all, he was in charge of anything broken or in need of any form of mending (which was probably how he became patron saint of automobile mechanics and embittered singles, as well as the usual medical types).

* * *

**000000**

The hellfire vanished. In its place loomed a hulking demon with the body of a crab, the tail of a scorpion, and, if the way he was waving around his pincers was any indication, the personality to go along with his crustacean looks. Before anyone could move, Crowley was snapped up into one of the four claws and Aziraphale had a stinger poised at his throat.

"Anthony J. Crowley, you are coming back to the C.A. with me to face trial."

"I beg your pardon?" Aziraphale inquired just as Crowley asked, "Come again?"

"Don't act the fool, Serpent, the imps told me all about what happened. You destroyed a Duke and you've been associating with that—that pathetic excuse for an angel!"

"I _beg_ your _pardon_," Aziraphale repeated, his tone frigid. (1)

Raphael let out a groan and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was beginning to understand the human experience of getting a stress headache.

It took Crowley a second to convince his brain that it was, indeed, Thamuz in front of him. It wasn't just that he no longer looked like his usual incarnation when on Earth, (a pudgy, balding, tall guy who looked exactly like a 'Ted') but his avatar was also much bigger than he remembered. It felt a lot stronger, too.

"Don't think I'm going Down There without a fight just because you've built up your strength a little, Thamuz."

If a demon-crab-scorpion could smile, Thamuz would have. "I hope you do resist me—then I can try out my new powers." At the puzzled look, he added, "I used some of my spawn."

Crowley looked a little green. "That _works_?"

"Who are you?" Raphael interjected, before Thamuz could respond. The Archangel was leveling his scalpel-sword at the newcomer and his tone was that of one who has really had enough of this nonsense thank you.

"Thamuz, Torturer of Souls and—"

"Crowley," Aziraphale said to his counterpart. "What did he mean, he used some of his spawn? Aren't spawn—? Isn't that another word for—?"

"Created lower demons? Yep. He ate them. He ate some of the kids he had with a succubus and absorbed their power. (2) Isn't that right?"

"Tasted like chicken."

"Oh, _really_," Aziraphale chided.

"That's enough!" Raphael gathered his power, preparing to banish the scorpion-crab.

"Smite me and I reflexively poison the angel here," Thamuz said, stinger still at Aziraphale's neck.

"You're here for me, not him," Crowley stated at the same time Aziraphale made a snorting sound that was almost a laugh and said, "Raphael's here to—"

The Divine Healer interrupted. "Excuse me, demon—Thamuz, I believe? It'd be best if you'd leave. I'd rather not exert my Wrath, but I _will_." (3)

"I'm leaving," Thamuz replied. "But I'm taking the snake with me."

Before Crowley could change forms to put up a fight and before Raphael could say anything, Aziraphale had closed his eyes and _Willed_.

Several things happened in rapid succession. Flames of holy light engulfed the base of Thamuz' claw that held Crowley. Both demons blessed loudly. The divine flames burnt off the claw and it (along with the Serpent _in_ the claw) fell to the ground. Raphael avoided a blow from the three remaining pincers that whipped around and Aziraphale flopped to the floor. Crowley then pried the claw from around his waist and discovered that the injuries he received from being held in a vice-like pincer had been miracled away by his angel. Aziraphale was already on his side, pushing himself up.

"Bless it, that _hurt_," Thamuz whined, before he collected himself. He decided that no promotion (he was hoping he'd get promoted for bringing Crowley in, even though he'd broken the rules) was worth it and that he was going to _get_ that Principality (and his little Serpent, too).

Thamuz focused on Aziraphale and, since he couldn't think of a particularly witty, villainous thing to say, decided to go with one of the classic 'angry demon' responses, which was to bellow loudly and destroy whatever had harmed one. In this case, the scorpion-crab demon roared and then readied his stinger, lunging toward Aziraphale.

"Denied," Raphael said as he blocked Thamuz' deadly tail with his blade, though the Healer hesitated at doing anything more drastic. (4)

"Why is it," Crowley began as he shoved Aziraphale out of immediate range of the scorpion tail. "That all I seem to be doing lately is saving your fat arse?"

"My behind is not that extensive," Aziraphale replied. "And I believe I just saved _you_ from Thamuz' grasp." (5)

Raphael ignored them, currently avoiding Thamuz' blows but not landing his own. Instead, he flared up his Presence, inadvertently causing the scorpion-crab to reflexively lash out in pain with his tail. The stinger hit Raphael (who had not yet fully Invoked his Power) right in the chest.

"Bother," Raphael murmured as he went to his knees. He obviously wouldn't be defeated by a lesser demon, but it would take him a few moments to heal from such a direct hit of demon poison. Moments during which he was vulnerable.

Thamuz, scorched from the Presence and seething, scuttled forward to discorporate the Archangel so that he could End the Principality. Afterward, he planned to nab the Serpent, turn him over to the CA, and go home to get 'nursed' by his succubus.

"Looks like they might take care of one another," Crowley was saying, when, instead of doing the sensible thing and _letting_ their enemies finish each other, the Principality lurched upright and sent another ray of holiness at Thamuz. The beam incinerated yet another of the demon's claws. "_Azziraphale_," Crowley hissed.

Needless to say, Thamuz didn't take the new development very well and he instantly turned away from Raphael and back to Aziraphale. The Principality tried to send forth another blast, but he couldn't quite manage it. Unable to summon enough Power, Aziraphale slumped down to the floor, eyes closed.

The revenge-bent demon rushed forward and lashed out with his stinger to skewer the defenseless Principality, but Crowley (breaking his promise to himself not to act reflexively) threw himself on top of the prone angel. (6) He closed his eyes automatically, waiting for the horrible, stabbing pain.

It didn't happen.

Instead, there was a sudden, incredible explosion of Divine Light as Raphael Invoked his holy blade and slammed it into the scorpion-crab. Thamuz didn't even have time to scream before he was a pile of ash.

A few seconds later, Crowley opened his eyes and was surprised to find that he was in one piece and not the least bit injured from the holy blast. He was also still on top of Aziraphale, and he rolled off of him, saying, "You are a blessed _idiot_. What were you thinking? You're not healed enough for that kind of thing."

Aziraphale didn't respond.

Crowley looked over and saw the Principality's eyes were still closed. The demon hurried over to kneel beside him, barely noticing that where Thamuz had been there was merely a large scorch mark. (7)

"Angel?" Crowley asked, shaking his shoulder.

No response. Crowley felt tentatively, nervously for Aziraphale's Presence and found it, a small twinkle again, though it had previously been more recovered. The demon froze, although he hadn't been moving.

"I did tell you I would exert Wrath if I had to," Raphael said quietly to the smoking burn on the floor as he stepped over it.

Crowley clambered in front of Aziraphale (8) and hissed at the approaching Archangel, his fangs ready. "Ssstop there."

* * *

1. He'd been having a very rough twenty four hours, so he was inevitably going to be a tad bit cranky.

2. A note on spawn and eating them: Demons of high rank could create imps/minions/spawn at Will, but lesser demons needed help. It took two lesser demons to be able to spawn. The demons could mingle their essences which, in turn, would make them powerful enough to form a lower demon. (For further explanation, consult _Where Do Imps Come From?_)

All demons know that if one consumes another demon, they absorb his powers. This is usually more trouble than it's worth. Most of the time, the only ones that want to consume another demon's power are lesser demons and they don't have a chance at actually doing it. Besides, the resulting upsurge of strength after the consumption is only temporary. Moreover, (after one large scale incident that would have put Hannibal Lector to shame) the Administration of Hell frowned on the practice. (And if Hell 'frowns' on anything one does, one can usually except to have one's bowels rearranged and one's skin flayed.) Nevertheless, if an ambitious lesser demon wanted to, he could consume his own spawn, and thus he would be, in a sense, temporarily increasing his own powers. In short, if a demon eats another demon, the result is a temporary surge of power for the eater.

3. Raphael wasn't threatening the demon, he was stating the facts. The Divine Healer wasn't into intimidation. In fact, the reason he was readily prepared to banish Thamuz was because he was menacing Aziraphale which, on top of being unnecessarily rude, was the last straw for the Healer. True, he was supposed to End Aziraphale himself, but he wouldn't do it in a way that would hurt—he'd make sure it was quick and painless. Thamuz wouldn't.

4. The problem he was having was that he knew the Metatron would expect him to kill everyone in the room or, failing that, take the coward's way out and let Thamuz take care of the other two. But Raphael didn't _want_ Thamuz to End the Principality or the Serpent. Aziraphale was a nice fellow, after all, and he and Crowley seemed, well, a match made so far outside of Heaven and Hell that it _had_ to be part of the Ineffable Plan. They were Meant to Be, in other words. Of course, Raphael knew he was somewhat of a romantic. And that he was fighting Thamuz in order to put off the inevitable fact that he had been Ordered to destroy Aziraphale.

5. Literally. The Serpent couldn't quite decide if Aziraphale was attempting to be humorous or if he was, in fact, perfectly serious. Crowley often had that problem.

6. Crowley figured that, if he survived, he'd have to do a lot of corrupting of souls or something equally bad in order to make up for all the stupid heroics he'd been doing lately. And he wasn't even acting that way just for the sake of the Arrangement. Actually, it was for _Aziraphale's_ sake, which was worse.

7. Which was sort of in the shape of Disney channel star Miley Cyrus. Take from that what you will.

8. He told himself he wasn't really being a gallant fool, it was just that Aziraphale really _had_ saved him from Thamuz' grasp so technically he should even things up by making sure the Principality didn't get Ended. He didn't really believe himself, but he was _the_ Serpent and great at conning—well, at the least, great at _pretending_ to con even himself.

* * *

**000000**

Raphael hesitated. "Crowley—"

The Serpent rose from his position beside Aziraphale and moved in front of him. He kept his fangs bared, his claws ready, and he spread his wings as wide as they went, blocking the Archangel's path. The stance was one of protection; it was the equivalent of saying, 'Back off. I won't attack you first, but if you try and get around my wingspan, I _will._' (1)

Crowley had never imagined himself challenging Raphael, the Divine Healer, one of the Seven who Stands before the Lord, Master of the Powers of Light, the Shining One who Heals, Prince of the Presence, Regent of the Sun, _etc_. He had already fought Duke Hastur, which had been as much for the suffering caused to Aziraphale as it had been for the Arrangement. Challenging a high-ranking angel like the Healer made his attack on Duke Hastur look positively _sane_.

And yet Crowley was again standing between Aziraphale and the Archangel, entirely certain in his decision that if he had to, he'd fight Raphael. He tried very hard not to think about _why_. It wasn't as if Crowley had a chance of defeating Raphael, after all; one of the many little voices in his head was screaming, 'A bloody angel isn't worth your _existence_, you twit!'

But Aziraphale wasn't just any bloody angel. He never had been, not even back in the days of the Garden, just like Crowley had never been just any sodding demon. (2) So it was probably natural that the two of them had gotten used to each other, had stopped seeing things as black and white, and had invested in the gray zone, though neither would actually admit it.

Regardless of the reason, Anthony J. Crowley wasn't going anywhere. They would End together, or not at all. Crowley groaned inwardly at the thought, but he didn't budge. He was realizing, with horror, that he meant to try and uphold the promise he'd made earlier to Aziraphale: '_no one'sss _going to hurt you again _ever._'

"If you would merely," Raphael began, moving forward, but he stopped talking and moving when Crowley's demonic Presence spiked.

His wings, still outspread, rose higher, and his hissing grew louder, reminiscent of a rattlesnake's tail rattling harder seconds before the strike. It would have been the perfect moment for Crowley to say, 'If you want him, you'll have to go through me' or 'None shall pass,' (3) but instead he just let out a long, low hiss, almost a snarl, that managed to say it all nicely.

"You needn't—"

"Don't," Crowley said. He didn't want to hear about how he needn't be discorporated if he'd only step aside; he didn't want to hear anything at all. Once again he settled into stillness, his eyes—more red than gold at the moment—glaring at the Archangel. He pulled back his lips to clearly expose his long fangs, and he growled low, in case Raphael missed his clear warning.

Sword lowered, the Healer kept walking forward, albeit slowly. "I merely—"

Crowley struck.

Raphael's sword clattered to the ground. The hand that had held it was nearly severed from a swipe of talons. The top of the Healer's shoulder was torn open by a nasty bite. Instantly, the Archangel surged power into his Presence.

The human body Raphael currently occupied seemed to fill with an inner light, the same kind of glow that happens when one places one's hand directly over a torch's beam, revealing the veins in one's fingers.

The Serpent sank to his knees and an already healed Raphael retrieved his scalpel-sword and held it incredibly close to Crowley's throat. He could feel the searing heat of divine fire on his skin.

"_Crowley_." Raphael said. He did not yell or growl, but he _spake._ It was the kind of voice that, had a human heard it, would have seemed to echo everywhere, inside and outside of one's head at the same time. It made whoever heard it, even a demon, pay attention. "Be still."

And with that, Crowley was Bound, essentially frozen in place, unable to act. Next, the Serpent assumed, would either be Banishment or a Smiting (4).

"I'm sorry, but I don't particularly care to get bitten again," the Healer said apologetically as he walked around Crowley.

The demon couldn't turn to look behind him, but he knew Raphael was going toward the Principality. Aziraphale was going to be Ended and he couldn't do a blessed thing about it. It was rather trying for Crowley, who had always been a closet optimist. He had continuously believed, despite all the evidence to the contrary, that somehow it'd all work out. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have tried to stop the Apocalypse. But how could everything work out if Aziraphale was Gone? It couldn't—and Crowley couldn't do a blessed thing to stop it from happening. It was very easily the worst feeling he'd ever had. (5)

"_No_." Crowley fought against the power that held him in place and just managed to summon enough anger to clench his fists, claws scraping along his palm, though he was still Bound and couldn't move anything else.

He couldn't see what was happening behind him; with the Principality being so weak and Raphael's giant Presence nearby, Crowley couldn't detect Aziraphale's essence at all.

A paralyzing thought (pardon the expression) poured over the demon like he'd been doused in ice water. Had the Healer Finished the angel? Crowley's claws dug further into his palms and he swore to himself that if he survived—if Raphael banished him instead of smote him—he'd let the next Apocalypse come, would wait for the Final Battle eagerly. In the meantime, he'd plot for a way to destroy Raphael. Crowley himself would be destroyed in the process, of course, but that wouldn't matter…

Raphael moved back around to the front and saw the demon's face, which had gone expressionless. But he was a Healer—he always sensed pain, even if it wasn't physical, and it was more than radiating off of the Serpent. "I haven't done anything," he said softly.

Crowley was disgusted to find that, if he could have, he might have sagged in relief. "Look, you've not said why he's _really_ on Heaven's shit list. If you really were here to deliver mercy, than wouldn't it be a He—a _lot_ more merciful just to _heal_ him? What kind of twisted bastard sends a Healer to Off someone? What kind of twisted Healer—"

"You're trying to protect him." It wasn't phrased as a question, but it felt like one.

Crowley stayed silent. If he was going to be smote, he wished Raphael would hurry up and get it over with without _talking_ him to death. Besides, how was he supposed to answer?

"I didn't believe it at first, though it seems obvious now," Raphael said ruefully. "You're ready to face nonexistence for Aziraphale."

Crowley glared at Raphael, whose green, green eyes were boring into his. "Just watching out for my own interests," he grumbled.

"How so?"

"'S complicated."

"I'm not going to End Aziraphale," Raphael said, coming around to face the demon.

Crowley raised a skeptical eyebrow, suspecting a ploy. (6) "I don't believe you."

"She said I'd Know what to do." Raphael turned his fiery sword back into a scalpel and vanished it to his medical supply cabinet in Heaven. "And I'm not going to End Aziraphale." (7)

The demon's expression, that of Doubting Crowley (a stronger Look than even that of the original Doubting Thomas), didn't waver.

"I give you my _word_." Raphael waved a hand and released the bind. "The only reason I Bound you was so that I could tell you that without you biting my throat out."

Crowley stood shakily. He felt ill (no matter how careful Raphael was, binding always weakened a demon), but the first thing he did was turn around to look for Aziraphale. The Healer had picked him up off the floor and laid him on the mattress. The demon staggered over to him and sat on the side of the bed. He remained very aware of Raphael's every movement, however.

"You might not have to, anyway," the demon said quietly, examining Aziraphale's small Presence. "He _was_ getting better, but now he seems worse again."

Raphael walked over and stood next to them.

Crowley glowered. "No closser."

"I'm just going to look." Raphael leaned over the lower-ranked angel.

Crowley watched him warily, hissing under his breath without even realizing it.

The Divine Healer touched the side of Aziraphale's face with a gentle hand. "He's over done things and relapsed."

"If you're not going to End him, are you going to _heal_ him?" Crowley asked, his tone challenging. (8)

"No," Raphael said with honest regret.

Crowley took a deep breath. "What do I have that you want?"

The Archangel was only taken aback for all of a half second. He was dealing with _the_ original tempter, after all. "I can't be tempted, Crowley."

He let his shades slid down his nose a bit so he could meet Raphael's eyes. "I'm not tempting you; I'm offering you a chance to make a deal."

"Ah. And deals with devils always go so well," Raphael replied.

The Serpent's gaze didn't waver—the more he held eye contact, the more likely the victim was likely to give in. Of course, this was far from the normal situation. "I'm not asking for your essence, healer. All I want from you is for you to name your price. Tell me what you'd need in order for you to Heal the angel."

Raphael surveyed the demon, who was carefully keeping all expressions off his face. He didn't know how well the Healer could _feel_ him. Angels were sensitive to emotions and feelings in general, and as Divine Healer this was doubly so for Raphael. The Serpent might have been in business mode, his eyes as beguiling as they could get, but the Archangel could feel that this wasn't a regular kind of temptation—it was tinged heavily with desperation. Desperation, resolve, and worry.

"Why are you doing this?"

Crowley gave his best Flash-Bastard grin. "Like I said, I'm protecting my own interests."

"As _I_ said, how so? Are you certain you're not asking solely for his sake?"

"I am not doing it for _him_," Crowley denied firmly. "It's just that Aziraphale and I stay out of each other's way. If he Fades, that'll be all over with and a new Agent will get sent down here and start stepping on my toes. I don't want that, and I know _you_ don't really want Aziraphale to cease existing, so let's make a deal."

"I really can't heal him, Crowley. I'm sorry, but I've been forbidden."

"No one has to know. I may be a demon, but I'm a demon of my word. I'd never reveal whatever agreement we come to." His voice was sincere, beguiling, and Raphael could see what Eve had given into all those years ago.

But the Healer wasn't a mortal and he'd already made up his mind. "I'm not going to do it."

* * *

1. The wings, could they have actually spoken this, would have said it in the same sort of tone that John Wayne had when he said, 'If you're lookin' for trouble, I'll accommodate you.'

2. (And that wasn't merely Crowley's personal opinion.) A regular angel would never have deigned to speak to a demon beyond the usual 'begone's and 'expire foul creature.' A regular angel wouldn't have sheltered the Serpent from the rain with his wings or given away his fiery sword to a human. Furthermore, a regular angel certainly wouldn't have decided to be Ended by a Duke from Hell rather than betray a demon. Aziraphale wasn't, had never been, regular.

Likewise, Crowley never had 'fit in' with the crowd Below. A regular demon wouldn't have made an arrangement with an angel or acted as a chauffeur for an angel or raced inside a burning building for an angel. He wasn't regular and it wasn't just because he'd been on Earth so long, either—or at least, it wasn't just that. Being stationed on Earth had made the gap between Crowley and Hell as well as Aziraphale and Heaven _wider_ (and had also possibly deepened their recognition of freewill) but it hadn't actually _caused_ the gap. Otherwise, the two of them would have been more like a generic angel and demon when they were in the Garden.

3. Customary Monty Python reference.

4. Generally, an Archangel, after Binding a demon, wasn't going to merely slap his wrist, stick him in the corner, and slip a 'Dunce' cap on his head.

5. And coming from a demon who had experienced Hell itself, that was saying a lot.

6. Demons _always_ suspect a ploy. It's what they'd do in the other person's position, after all.

7. It was as good an explanation as any, and he honestly _had_ come to the realization that he couldn't End Aziraphale. Raphael wasn't sure if that was what She had meant, but he had Known what he was going to do the moment he saw Crowley push Aziraphale out of the way, Aziraphale save Crowley, Aziraphale help Raphael himself, and then Crowley throw himself over the angel to be stabbed in his place. He was not going to destroy Aziraphale. He would not separate them, not even if the Metatron Fell him because of it. And because he was an angel, and angels do not _exactly_ have free will (it's complicated), he assumed that it must be God's plan, otherwise he wouldn't have felt that way.

8. The Serpent briefly wondered if he had a Nonexistence-wish himself, since he'd been acting heroic and stood up to an Archangel who could banish him as easily as he could blink. If it had been any other Archangel, Crowley would have already, at the least, have been banished, and more likely smote.

* * *

**000000**

"I don't have the strength to heal him again, but you do," the demon said, clenching his jaw. His eyes briefly went red again. "He could End anyway, if he isn't restored. You can't call yourself a Healer and leave him like this!"

Raphael gazed from the demon to the angel. He made up his mind. "I _can't_ Heal him." The Serpent let out an angry hiss. "But you can."

"What? I jusst _told_ you—"

"Please give me your hand."

Crowley snorted.

Raphael just looked at him expectantly. (1) After a long stare down between them, the Healer said, "If I wanted to smite you, I could have done so a long time ago."

"Rub it in," Crowley grumbled.

Brows raised, Raphael extended his hand pointedly.

"What are you playing at? Feeling lonely, are you?"

"I can lend you the Power to heal Aziraphale, Serpent."

"Lend me the Power?" Crowley crossed his arms. "Do you know how cliché that sounds?"

"Do you _want_ the Principality to cease existing?"

Crowley frowned. "That ought to be obvious, healer. I already told you, if he Disappears, things get tougher for me."

"Then take my hand."

"I touch you, I probably get smote into next Tuesday. You're setting me up," Crowley replied.

"There wouldn't be any point! I could dispatch both of you easily without an elaborate trick." Raphael was stating the facts, not being smug, which only served to make the demon more annoyed.

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale's still face before looking back at the Archangel. "I have to actually touch you?"

"Am I that repellant?" Raphael asked, his expression somewhere between an amused smile and an injured frown.

"You're an _Archangel_," Crowley said, as if that explained everything. (To him, it did.) He didn't extend his hand; if the Healer wanted hand-holding, he'd have to take Crowley's. It was not going to happen the other way around. He narrowed his golden-yellow eyes, which were just visible over his shades. "What would you want in return?"

Raphael sighed. The demon was missing the point. "If you care about him, you'll do it."

"I bloody well told you it isn't about _him_; it's about me and my job! Aziraphale makes it easier in the long run, that's all! If a heavenly agent has to be around, its better that it's him, that's all. It doesn't mean I want to get all soppy and hold hands with an Archangel."

Raphael folded his own arms. He wasn't letting the demon skirt the issue so easily. "Do you care about him or not? If you don't, then by all means, don't take my hand."

"Just give me your blessed hand and shut up." Crowley thrust out his hand angrily. (2) Raphael took it.

The contact didn't hurt.

At Crowley's surprised expression, Raphael smiled. "I'm a _Healer_," he said.

Warmth tingled through the demon's fingers and into his palm. "What'd you do?" Crowley asked, his eyes narrowed.

"I was told that I couldn't heal Aziraphale. No one ever said I couldn't give someone _else_ the ability to do so."

The Serpent stared down at his hand and shivered—he had just begun to feel a little bit of what it was like to have Raphael's Healing Power. It _hurt. _He could intimately sense Aziraphale's current discomfort, and worse, he could feel the whole range of pain the Principality had gone through. He even felt the mental anguish of the nearest human beings and Raphael's own pain at being unable to heal Aziraphale. Power thrummed in him, divine power. It had been so long since he had felt any…

Raphael cleared his throat softly. "I'm sorry, Crowley, but the Power _will_ recede after you heal Aziraphale. I can't bestow it forever."

"I wouldn't want it," Crowley said snidely, but he was, at least in part, lying. "Who'd want to run around like a pansy pronouncing 'thou art healed' all the time?"

"What do pansies have to do with it? Their traditional medicinal uses are for _humans_—treating skin conditions, lung problems, and arthritis," Raphael replied, proving that there really were beings more out of touch with earth language than Aziraphale. (And actually, the majority of the other angels were even worse than the Healer was.)

"Never mind."

Raphael miracled the room neat and pristine, making sure the spot that had been Thamuz was gone.

Crowley ran a hand nonchalantly through his hair. "So, I say 'be whole and well' or something?"

"Just take his hand and _Will_ him to health. He'll stay asleep for a while, regenerating, and when he awakens he'll be whole again."

"He'll be fully healed?"

The Archangel looked at the demon and smiled, his eyes soft, and Crowley scowled.

"I just want my apartment back to myself and him out of my hair."

Raphael shook his head at the demon's defensiveness. "When he wakes up in a day or so from now, yes, he'll be healed. And about what I want in return…"

_Aha_, Crowley thought,_ I _knew_ he'd go in for bargaining_. The only angel that had ever or would ever give the Serpent anything willingly—other than the sharp end of a sword—was Aziraphale. He was also the only angel that wouldn't necessarily expect something in return for a favor.

"Aziraphale should have someone watching out for him while he's recovering. I oughn't to stay on Earth that long. Will you look after him for me? It would make up for the bestowing of my healing power."

"I guess I'll do it," Crowley murmured. "If it'll make us even."

Raphael nodded. "I'm glad I didn't have to smite either of you."

"We're glad, too."

The Divine Healer smiled wider before getting back down to business. "Even after Aziraphale wakes up, he should still take it easy the next week. Make certain that he doesn't do any but the smallest of miracles, just to be safe. Got that?"

"Yeah."

"Repeat what I've said, please," Raphael said, ever the Healer.

Seeing there was no other way to get the Archangel out of his apartment, Crowley scowled and muttered, "Will him to health, he'll sleep for about a day and shouldn't be alone. He should rest for a week with no miracles that entire time."

"Exactly. Oh, and Crowley?"

"Yeah?"

"Your secret—that is, the secret you and Aziraphale share—is safe with me."

Crowley glowered over the top of his sunglasses. "What d'you mean?"

"Your…friendship. I shan't reveal it."

"I told you, healer, this was purely a sensible business move on my part."

"And you ought to know, demon, that the only way I could freely share my powers with you was if you genuinely cared about whatever you were going to Heal. It's a stipulation in my power-bestowing contract, so to speak."

Crowley blinked, unsettled for a millisecond, before replying, "Sure I care about him—as someone who makes my existence easier because he stays out of my way—"

Raphael gave Crowley a Look and the Serpent trailed off.

"I don't disapprove, you know. Friendship, love—those aren't sins, even if, well, you're on opposite sides."

Crowley wanted to snarl, but he settled for grousing, "He's definitely more of a pain in the neck than a friend."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of." Before the demon could respond, Raphael continued. "I have something to ask you."

"What?"

"If I happen to Fall, would you help a fellow out?"

Crowley almost laughed before he realized the Archangel was serious. "You think it'll come to that?"

"I don't think so, but I thought I'd ask in case. It's better to be prepared. Still, if I dally around Earth a while, I can say that Aziraphale was fully healed—by someone other than myself—before I could 'end his suffering.' Oh, before I forget, if you see Asmodeus, do tell him I say hello, won't you, and that I send my best?"

"Uh…"

Raphael shook his head. "Never mind, you can't do that without explaining why you saw me. Oh well." He tried not to sound too disappointed—he hated the thought that Asmodeus was probably angry with him (to put it mildly) and the Healer had wanted a chance to clear the air (3).

"Good luck, then," Crowley said pointedly, indicating the visit was, in his opinion, over.

"Take care of each other," Raphael said. He closed his eyes and bolstered the demon's waning strength as surreptitiously as possible. Crowley didn't notice. The Divine Healer paused, his face revealing confliction. "Er, Crowley."

"Yeah?"

"I don't think you can count on either side for, for much support in an emergency."

"Amazingly, I figured that out."

"Even if it's just business with you two," Raphael said, though he was certain it wasn't. "You ought to watch out for each other."

_We already do_, Crowley thought, but he didn't say anything, just nodded his head to acknowledge the statement.

Raphael left the apartment, walking outside rather than making an ostentatious show of disappearing in a ball of light. He eagerly eyed London. It had been a _long_ time since he was physically on Earth.

Crowley, still sitting next to the angel, took his hands. He closed his eyes and Willed. The healing power Raphael had granted him flowed through his fingertips and both his hands and the Principality's were momentarily filled with divine light. (Just as miraculously, the divine light didn't injure Crowley at all. Something Raphael had ensured, of course.)

The light spread from Aziraphale's hands. Soon his entire body was glowing. All traces of injury disappeared. The Principality's angelic Presence flared up, strong once more. Both his face, which had been drawn, and his expression, which had been troubled, smoothed out. The angel let out a sleepy sigh and burrowed deeper into his pillow.

Crowley released Aziraphale's hands and watched the healed angel sleeping for a long moment. He didn't let himself smile, but his own brow un-furrowed for the first time in hours. A tide of some kind of emotion—it certainly wasn't relief—washed over the demon, filling him with contented warmth. Crowley decided the feeling must be a side effect from Raphael's gift. The power to Heal came along with the power to be an emotional sap.

The Serpent yawned, his exhaustion starting to catch up with him, and he hesitated only a second before he gently scooted the Principality over. Aziraphale made a sleepy murmur, but he didn't wake. Crowley put his legs up on the bed and leaned back against the headboard. He _had_ told Raphael he'd keep an eye on Aziraphale and look after him. After making sure the angel was staying on his side of the mattress, Crowley stretched out next to his counterpart, his supposed Enemy, his angel, and closed his eyes.

It wasn't long before there were two man-shaped beings asleep on the bed.

* * *

1. He would have looked at even a rampaging hellhound expectantly if he'd told it to sit and give him its paw. It was one of Raphael's weaknesses, believing the best of people/beings, feeling that most of them would do the rational thing in the end.

2. He hadn't really answered the question. It wasn't like Crowley could say, 'Yes, I do, care for him; ever since I've been on Earth with the annoying bugger he's become more like a friend than otherwise, and I'd rather not exist than be without him' to Raphael; Hell, he couldn't even admit that to _himself_. But in the end, both he and Raphael knew, at least on some level, what the answer was.

3. The previous footnote about Asmodeus and Raphael only told why Raphael didn't hate Asmodeus. It did not relate another reason the Divine Healer felt guilty for the incident…

Raphael had often gone to Earth to Heal (in the old days) and during those visits he had occasionally run into Asmodeus sickening cows or corrupting the local water supply or spreading sicknesses and the like. Each time, Raphael had expelled the demon from the area. It became a routine. (In case you were wondering, the Archdemon and Archangel did not share anything at all like Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship, which had always bordered on being friendly. No, Raphael and Asmodeus weren't friends, but running into each other did become a habit.) (A side note: Raphael never ran into Crowley during his times on Earth. Aziraphale might well have had something to do with this.)

One time, somewhere between the hellish trouble being stirred, Raphael chasing Asmodeus away, and the Archangel Healing the area, Asmodeus had, in a roundabout way, casually mentioned that perhaps all humans didn't deserve to roast in Hell. Then he'd asked if Raphael, as a healer of relationships as well as injuries, had any advice on how to get a woman's attention. The reader can probably see where this is going. In Raphael's point of view, the whole incident that occurred later with Sarah and the killing of her husbands and then the banishing was his responsibility. 'Let her know how you feel in subtle ways and show her that you care'—which had been Raphael's advice—apparently equaled 'guard her possessively and kill any man near her' in demon-speak. To his credit, when Raphael had figured out what was going on, he'd tried to stop it without banishing Asmodeus. The Healer had even warned the demon. 'Look, it's not like I approve of your kind running around Earth in general and I really oughtn't to be speaking to you at all, but I can tell you genuinely have feelings for Sarah and anyway, what I'm trying to say is that if you don't stop this slaying her husbands nonsense, someone Up There is going to notice and you'll be Banished or Smote. So do yourself a favor and stop it. If you want Sarah to know how you feel, just tell her _verbally_.'

Needless to say, Asmodeus didn't take his advice, and Raphael had indeed, as mentioned earlier, been ordered to Bind and Banish him.

* * *

**000000**

**Epilogue: Other Places**

_Heaven_

The Metatron, otherwise known as the Voice of God, received his first Heavenly Memorandum from the Lord. The subject line read, _Re: Aziraphale, Raphael, and Actions Taken Involving Them._

'You Know Better,' God had written for the opening line. (1)

The note was short and to the point, basically stating that Raphael was not to be punished (2) and to leave Aziraphale alone ('the poor dear'). The Metatron was hovering somewhere between uneasy rage and anxious guilt, but he decided all of it had to have been part of the Plan, then.

* * *

1. On reading this, the Metatron flinched and storms broke out on three different continents with his displeasure. The oft-used-by-parents line was infinitely worse when written by the Lord. Not even the best-at-creating-guilt mother or grandmother could achieve the same response of remorse and dread. Coming from God, the words literally radiated, 'I'm not angry, I'm _disappointed_.'

2. Also added, on the side, was, 'Shame on you for threatening to Fell the Healer in the first place. Raphael has enough to worry about as it is! I'd like to see _you_ feel all the pain in existence and not turn Emo.'

* * *

_The Sky_

Archangel Raphael munched happily on a chocolate bar as he hovered over London, finally ready to head back to Heaven after a productive night (1). He paused merely to finish his sweet and look down on a certain angel and demon, who were both asleep and lying on the same bed in a tangle of wings. The Divine Healer smiled.

Raphael was almost positive he wouldn't be Felled, he'd been able to do some direct Healing for once, and the candy bar was delicious. Most of all, Aziraphale was alive and well and the Metatron had his chance for revenge taken away. The world, the universe—existence, basically—was, in the Healer's opinion, all right.

* * *

1. London hospitals were amazed when out of nowhere there was a rash of comatose patients waking up, people in hospice miraculously making full recoveries, the psychiatric patients becoming surprisingly lucid, and many other such medical miracles. In one astonishing case, (where Raphael might have, if pressed, admitted to going overboard) a blinded, double amputee was shocked to wake up the next morning and _see_ (literally) that his limbs were there again and quite whole.

Moreover, the rate of couples getting back together and the rate of appliances and vehicles fixing themselves without being thumped also skyrocketed. One example of a relationship being mended occurred in the building near Crowley's, where the woman who had kicked out her ex and threatened him with pepper spray repented, gently washed out his eyes, and forgave him. The man realized how stupid he had been to fool around and that he really did love Aileen, even if she _had_ sprayed him with mace. The two moved back in together and were never apart again. (Not literally, of course. They merely remained a couple for the length of their lives. Raphael was careful with such things—he remembered the time when another angel, who had been inexperienced with humankind, had made it so that a couple was 'Never Again Parted.' That did not end well. Being forced to be together twenty-four hours a day was a trial for even the happiest couple. One can only go to the bathroom with another person in the room so many times before it gets old. The Healer had fixed the resulting messy relationship, with a trip to Gomorrah for the man—obviously before it was Smote and before Raphael knew _why_ the city had the reputation for being a great vacation place—and a few chore-free, shopping-filled months for the woman. After the separation, they got back together. And made sure they each had a lot of 'alone-time.')

* * *

_Earth_

Somewhere, two ethereal/occult beings slept on, comfortable in their own special blend of warmth, impediment, balance, and reassurance that they gave one another. Somewhere, a dog barked and a young man reached down to scratch its ears, smiling.

* * *


End file.
